La Carta (The Letter)
by MJRod
Summary: III. Season 4.18: After Don Sebastian's death, Mano assists Tio Domingo in Sonora. Old amigos surface to threaten Mano's return to AZ & very survival. Co-authored by VKS & MJRod, Cannons & Montoyas reunite v. new & old foes. Has Don Sebastian left a surprise for Mano? This follows our "Fathers and Sons" and THC's "New Lion of Sonora." Please read & review as we continue season 4.
1. Chapter 1

**La Carta (The Letter)**

 **By VKS & MJRod**

 _ **This story continues "The High Chaparral" season 4 series and is our tribute to the show, its actors, writers, producers, directors and creator. VKS & MJRod retain all rights to the plots of our stories, including this one, and to such characters of our invention as the Ruiz family, Teresa Lauder, and other figures not in the original series. Of course the wonderful characters of the THC are copyrighted by Mr. Dortort and impossible to improve. So we simply honor them and hope we have done them justice.**_

 **La Carta Chapter One: An Unexpected Development**

Dios mío! La carta..the letter...the patrón's letter! Pepe's eyes widened in panic and he slapped himself on the side of the head as he at last remembered what Don Sebastian de Montoya had instructed him never to forget. The letter addressed to Don Domingo, left in the middle drawer of the patrón's great desk. Was it even still there? Ay yi yi. How could he have been so stupid? Bruto! Oh yes, indeed there were reasons…but he, Pepe, had no excuse. He had failed his master of many years. He had failed the patrón. Madre de Dios! I am old.

Indeed, Pepe felt every bit of his sixty years. Sweat poured off his forehead which throbbed as the blood rushed from his heart. Just last year, nothing. But since, Don Sebastian's death…so unexpected. Don Manolo disinherited...finding his uncle. Don Domingo, now the new patrón. The lawyer Nervo and his treachery. The comancheros. So many killed in the fight for Rancho Montoya. Doña Victoria, grieving. Los señores Cannon. And he, Pepe, had forgotten the letter. Had Nervo disposed of it? Was it even still there?

Pepe knew what he must do.

Pepe's breathing sputtered in short, erratic bursts as he scurried to the study of the new patrón of Rancho Montoya. He paused to take a deep breath before forcing his trembling hand into a fist and knocking.

"Patrón!" Pepe called, his voice high pitched and cracking.

"Adelante," came the smooth voice from within.

Pepe thrust open the door to see Don Domingo de Montoya sitting behind the massive carved Spanish oak desk in the chair that had belonged to his elder brother. Rings of smoke from a thin cigar wreathed Don Domingo's head. He looked up from the book he was perusing, expectant. His dark brown eyes betrayed neither humor nor annoyance. He looked, if anything, bored, thought Pepe.

"Patrón?"

"Yes," Don Domingo replied, his voice now carrying an edge. Would these servants never get to the point?

"Don Domingo, I have made a most grievous lapse of judgment," Pepe began. His heart raced, pounding in his chest as if beating against the skin of a drum. Perspiration soaked his shirt and glazed his brow. He clasped hands together to stop them from shaking as he approached the desk, his eyes cast down. He could not meet the Don's gaze.

"Don Domingo?"

"Yes?" Domingo's brow furrowed and he tilted his chin up, his eyes slitted, his gaze slicing through Pepe. Get on with it, the Don thought.

"There is, señor, a letter addressed to you from your brother, Patrón. Or there was."

"Oh?"

"It was placed in the middle drawer by your brother, Don Sebastian. I was to tell the lawyer Nervo of it but…"

"But you forgot?"

"Si, Patrón…I forgot completely. I even forgot to tell you or Don Manolo or Doña Victoria. With all that occurred…"

"Calma, Pepe. Let us see if this missive still exists."

Pepe edged closer, peering over the desk, eyes wide, breathless, only exhaling as Domingo slid open the drawer and withdrew a folded parchment addressed to him and sealed with the crest of the Lion of Sonora.

"You see, Pepe. No harm has been done. There is no need to worry," Domingo reassured him in a soothing tone, almost purring...as a tiger might purr. "You may leave now."

"Si, Patrón. Gracias." Pepe nodded his head, a reflex action. He backed up a few steps and started to turn when Don Domingo again spoke, this time in a kinder voice.

"And Pepe, I do not know what this says, but it is probably a good thing that you did not tell that fool Nervo about this letter, entiendes?"

"Si, Patrón." Relieved, a smile playing about his lips, Pepe walked with precise steps to the door. His knees felt weak but he no longer trembled.

Domingo, brow furrowed, puzzled, stared at the letter for a moment before breaking the seal and unfolding the contents.

He shifted his slender frame in the richly upholstered chair of his brother, leaning back and propping an elbow on an armrest...and he smiled as he read.


	2. Chapter 2

**La Carta Chapter Two: Two Firesides**

Buck Cannon slouched in a cowhide chair by the open fireplace with its dying fire. He watched the embers glow. The wind-up clock in the hall read long past midnight. The ranch house at the High Chaparral was silent except for the sound of his brother John's mild snoring drifting from the room above. Buck couldn't sleep and he didn't know why. Jes too tired, he figured. Cain't remember ever feelin' like this. Bone tired. But a lot had been goin' on. His mind raced.

When was Mano comin' back? He couldn't remember. Been helping his uncle at his daddy's ranch for months now. Buck refused to think of the Rancho Montoya as anything but Don Sebastian's ranch. That old boy Domingo was aw right, but he hadn't done nuthin' to deserve the Rancho Montoya and Don Sebastian had been a dang fool to leave it to him. Mano'd a done a better job event-ully, when he settled down. But Mano didn't want it and Buck figured he wouldn'ta wanted it either. Lotta work.

Work. Mebbe that's why he was so blame tired. Mano'd left him an' the boy Wind to tend to the pregnant mares. Buck recollected takin' Toronado back to Don Sebastian and gettin' the news about Mano's daddy's dying. One of the worst days of my life, thought Buck. Ol' Don Sebastian was a good ol' boy, even if he was a little too hard on Mano. Can't blame him fer that. John's purty hard on Blue boy, too, fer that matter.

Blue...when was that fella coming home? Victoria had written him about her daddy and Buck half expected Blue boy to show up after the funeral. Nope. Jes a letter in return. Almost like Blue had cut 'em all off. Well, he needed to pay mind to his drawin', Buck guessed. Prob'ly won't come home lessen Big John or I die, and I don't expect to oblige him any time soon in that. An' John don't look ready fer the bone yard, neither.

Them mares shore is pretty, Buck mused. An' ever one of 'em gonna foal. Mano was right about them horses. Good stock. Spanish blood, all six. Ol' Toronado was sure worth his stuff. Didn't even haveta pay the breeding fee when I took that stallion back. What wuz it ol' Ruiz had said? "Under the circumstances, let it pass." First cuz Ruiz figgered Toronado was gonna belong to Mano anyway...and then, after that will was read, well, Señor Ruiz was pretty mad at his ol' buddy Don Sebastian for writing Mano outta the will. So, no fee to pay. Can't feel too bad about that. Worked pretty hard helpin' the Montoyas fight off them comancheros and that dirty dog lawyer. Yeah, we did. Guess ol' Uncle Dom owed us at least the price of a stud fee. Good of John to let us keep the horses down here at the Chaparral, too. Jus weren't no way I could have watched them by myself up at the C-Bar-M with Mano gone.

Wind, now that young un had turned out all right, Buck thought. Been a big help to us both. Still a might cocky. But the boy'd do. Even sellin' some o' our mustangs fer us now an' then, Wind was. Course we do pay him ten percent fer that. No, Wind would do. Most Indians jes rode their horses into the ground, but Wind, he took care of his and theirs, too. An' Toronado'd done his work, coverin' them mares, before all the rigamarole began at the Rancho Montoya...one reason he'd taken back the stallion instead of Mano. Picky, picky, picky, that was Mano 'bout them mares after Toronado had finished his bizness. Mano jes didn't wanna leave 'em fer love nor money. Or mebbe he saw a lotta money in that horseflesh, Buck laughed. He missed Mano. Mano shore loved them horses.

Wonder how Roy boy's doin'? Mebbe Teresa an' Roy already had them a littlun on the way. That'd make Vaquero real happy, specially if the baby took after its mama. Teresa was some kinda sweetheart. Who knew Vaquero had a niece like her? Be proud to have her as a daughter, myself, Buck thought. Hope me an' Mano got enough business to keep Roy boy busy in Casa Cueva, now that all this Rancho Montoya sit-e-ation be settled and Domingo looks like he's gonna stick.

Buck picked up a poker and stirred the embers. A tiny flame flared, then died. He'd let the fire burn on out and he'd head on up to his room. But his lids grew heavy and he made for the sofa instead. Victoria wouldn't like it in the mornin' but he'd jes lay here awhile and...moments later, he drifted off.

* * *

Manolito Montoya lounged in a crimson velvet armchair before the massive stone fireplace at the Hacienda Montoya in Sonora...his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, his head back and eyes shut, thinking. He was not asleep but merely resting his eyes. He had seen too much of late, he reflected. Sadness, death. Ay Bendita! Why can life not be simple? A quiet existence. A life of minimal responsibility. This is all I have ever asked or wanted. And now I must help my uncle comprehend the running of this great rancho. By rights, my rancho. But no longer.

Mano, idiota! What else could your father have done? Papá, in truth I did not realize I desired the life of a patrón even the slightest bit until it could longer be mine. I dreaded the responsibility, but I expected the legacy. Now it is gone. Eh, we want what we cannot have, es verdad. Hombre, what does this matter? Manolo, you have your own land and your own horses that will soon make a mark. And will this make you content? Quién sabe. Ay, Papá, how I wish I could talk to you now just once more. Seek your counsel. Ahora, I can only imagine what you might say.

The fire was dying but Mano made no move to stir the embers into flames. He heard Pepe shuffling toward him and he spoke to his old friend and servant in a low voice, "There is no need to add fuel, Pepe. I will go to bed soon."

"As you wish, Don Manolo." And Pepe shuffled back to the servants' quarters.

I must move, Mano thought, but I am too comfortable here. His thoughts drifted to Buck...what was his gran amigo doing and how did life fare on the Chaparral? And whom was Victoria scolding since he was not around? Ah, the mares, what of them? Who would have thought Vaquero possessed such fine animals? All of Spanish blood. And now his and Buck's. He smiled at the thought of Roy, now a husband to Teresa and son to Vaquero, juy juy, what joy in that household! I must stop by on my way home. Home? He sat upright and looked into the dying fire, blinking. That was a new thought. Home. His brow furrowed, his lips a straight line. When did I decide Arizona was my home? When did I sink such roots? Truly I _am_ becoming like my father. His lips curved into a wry smile. Well, then at least I am not as much like my uncle as everyone thought, and he chuckled at this.

Mano sighed, pushed himself out of the armchair, and headed to his room. On the stairs and across the landing, he tiptoed, hoping not to wake Tío Domingo. The conversation they must have would be better in the morning when his head was clear and when he possessed a greater command of his words than now. Now the words spun as a kaleidoscope in his mind: many colors, no distinct pattern. As he entered his room, he remembered Buck's discomfort at the Montoya luxury that he, Manolito, took for granted. I wonder if Buck has even taken a bath since I have seen him? Ay yi yi, my friend's personal habits are less than perfect, but then neither am I, he thought...neither am I so perfect.


	3. Chapter 3

**La Carta Chapter Three: Taking Leave**

Breakfast at Rancho Montoya was a formal affair with servants and silver platters and silence while the serious business of eating ensued. When the plates were removed and the coffee poured, Manolito cleared his throat and began what he had prepared to say.

"Tío?"

"Sí," Domingo elongated the vowel.

"Tío."

"You have already said that, Manolo," Domingo interrupted.

Mano smiled, his lips tight. "Tío, I believe it is time for me to return to the Rancho Cannon in Arizona."

"Oh?"

"Yes. I need to get back, as there is work for me to do. I am needed."

"And you are not needed here, my nephew?"

"Tío!" Mano exclaimed, then continued, persuasive. "You know that I have made a life for myself north of the border, near my sister."

"I know that you did not want _this_ great rancho."

"It is not like that." Mano's tone was sharper than he intended. He paused to take a breath and resume, in a calmer voice. "It is just that in Arizona I have found a life I have begun to enjoy, and I wish to see where it might lead me." His voice became softer, conciliatory, placating his uncle. "Rodrigo is here to help you. And I shall return from time to time."

Eventually you will return, Don Domingo thought, and not just from time to time, but for longer than you expect. "Ah, I see, my nephew. I see," he said. Domingo's smile widened as the smoke rose from the thin cigar held between his elegant fingers and close to his ear. His expression remained enigmatic but Mano fancied he could understand the tone. He would have been surprised to know what his uncle was, in fact, thinking.

Sebastian was a greater fool than I had heretofore imagined, Don Domingo mused. Why, my brother, did you not see the promise in your son? But of course I do not know what passed between you. "Manolo, if you wish to return to Arizona there is nothing here that is preventing you, my nephew. You may go…or come…as you wish," Domingo said, again with the inscrutable smile.

What are you really thinking, Tío? Mano wondered. A gambler such as yourself never tips his hand even when there are no cards to be played. Even with your family, eh? "Bueno," Mano replied. "Then Tío, I shall leave tomorrow. I have a few things I wish to conclude here with Ruiz and Rodrigo, and I will depart early in the morning, so that I may also take leave of my friends in Casa Cueva on my way north." Domingo said nothing, just again offered that smile which Mano had begun to find irksome. The Don dismissed his nephew with a nod of his head and a slight wave of his hand with its ever present cigar.

* * *

Mano nodded, dabbed at his mouth with his linen napkin, folded and replaced it on the table. "Permiso," he said to his uncle, then rose and walked into the courtyard of the hacienda, breathing in the morning air scented with sage and dew. Perhaps there is more warmth outside than in that cold house, so much like a mausoleum. This thought then led him across the courtyard to the family chapel. As he entered, he dipped his fingers in the bowl of holy water, knelt and crossed himself. Rising, he moved towards the vault where his father now lay beside his mamá, and he brushed his fingers along the edge of the marble. His eyes filled but he checked his emotions and only said, "Ay, Papá!" in a soft whisper, shaking his head. His eyes moved to the sarcophagus where Mercedes, too, rested. He pressed his fingers to his lips and touched them to the top of her tomb. His throat constricted; neither words nor breath would come. He shrugged away morbid thoughts, strode out of the chapel into the sunshine, and made for the stables in back.

"Ruiz!?"

"Sí Don Manolo," the old man, his father's friend and stable master, replied, looking up from a work bench in the shade.

"Ah Ruiz, there you are. I wish you to do something for me, por favor."

"Of course. What might this be?"

"Ruiz, I leave for the Chaparral in the morning and I will need your help to ensure that Vaquero, Roy, and Teresa have sufficient horses to work with in Casa Cueva. I have seen that in Mexico are many fine families that have fallen on hard times. If we can purchase their good horses and breed them, train them, sell them, whatever it might be that is needed to make ourselves a profit, then this is what we should do. We will at once be helping those families and also ourselves."

"Sí, Don Manolo. An excellent idea, Don Manolo. I know many families between here and Mexico City who have need of extra income and less expenditure. Horses are not cheap to own."

"Bueno, this is what we shall do then. If you will be so good to act as the liaison between these families and Vaquero, I can ensure that Vaquero, Roy, and Teresa know what to do afterwards," Mano said, pausing to look at the man who had been as a second father to him. "Ah Ruiz, my old friend, I shall miss you."

"Yes, I, too, will miss you, Manolito." The two embraced, their smiles faint but their eyes shining. Nothing more needed to be said.

* * *

Later that afternoon, Rodrigo, the son of Ruiz and foreman of the Rancho Montoya, rode in from the range just as Mano, who had been waiting for him, moved into the light from the shadow of the barn.

"Ay, Patrón, I did not see you there," Rodrigo opened. "Is there something you need?"

"Sí. A word with you, Rodrigo, if you please."

"Por supuesto." Rodrigo dismounted.

"My friend, I start north to the Chaparral in the morning and, while I know that my uncle has begun to understand what it means to run this great rancho, I feel he lacks much, ah, practical knowledge. I am asking that you do all you can to, cómo se dice, steer him in the right direction, subtly, with the charm you have inherited from your father, eh?" Mano's smile was broad and beaming.

"Patrón, I will do all I can. I am not sure that will be much."

"Nonsense, Rodrigo, you are more than capable. I know that you helped Papá very much and he came to rely on you." Mano almost said "as a son," but, recovering himself, added instead, "as a trusted friend."

"Gracias, Patrón. I tried."

"And succeeded well," Mano smiled. "Please continue this good work in his memory and on my family's behalf. I will be back from time to time to visit and because business interests will bring me here. We need someone we can trust to ensure that this great rancho remains worthy of the Montoya name."

Rodrigo nodded, "Muy bien, Don Manolo."

"Will you ever just call me Manolito, amigo?" Mano said with a laugh before shaking hands with Rodrigo and clapping him on the shoulder.


	4. Chapter 4

**La Carta Chapter Four: The Lost One**

With all said that needed to be said, dinner that evening with his uncle proved a pleasant experience. Much brandy was consumed and Mano went to bed with a rather less steady gait than he might have wished. Early the next day he rode out past the large bronze lions marking the rancho gateway, pausing to turn his horse, Macadoo, and gaze once more upon the great hacienda, now in the distance. He took a deep breath, sighed, then nudged the gelding toward the trail to the dusty pueblo of Casa Cueva, nestled on Montoya land. It is all Montoya land, is it not? he mused as he rode.

Roy Lauder and Vaquero, alcalde of Casa Cueva, welcomed him, understanding his plans almost before he had finished explaining. Finances were discussed. The farewell was bittersweet. "Roy, you take care of Teresa and the horses, eh? Vaquero, amigo, how good it has been." As all good things must end, just before 11 o'clock that morning, Manolo Montoya started on the trail home to Arizona. Home, he still shook his head at that thought. But the ranch of his sister and John Cannon had become also his home.

Horse and rider paused some miles up the trail. Macadoo became skittish, most unlike him. He snorted, tossing his head two or three times, irritating his master. "What, Mac? Qué pasa caballito? Do you have something in your ears?" Mano asked, a little annoyed, but patting the neck of his favorite horse. "Ay yi yi, Macadoo, I am stiff," he said as he sat upright in the saddle, then stood in his stirrups, twisting sideways to stretch his spine. Mac swiveled his ears at this movement, then started at what came next. Crack! A millisecond after the distant rifle burst registered with Mano, he felt a crash in his chest, himself lifted up, and a single explosion of pain. The world spun till his head banged into a hardness that stopped the rotation. A flash of bright white light seared his vision, then all turned to black as he fell from his saddle, landing hard on the ground. By then he saw and felt nothing at all.

When he came to, he found himself stretched out upon a canvas that smelled of decay. Lying still, he blinked his eyes open but saw only darkness. Where is this? he thought. Where am I? He tried to move a hand, an arm, but could not. His head throbbed. His chest ached and seemed to bear a heavy weight. The odor of dried blood filled his nostrils. He started to moan, then bit the inside of his cheek to suppress the urge. His throat parched and dry, he tried to swallow but could not, and his breathing came in shallow gasps. A yellow light streamed in, shining in his eyes. Had a doorway just opened? Was a curtain pulled back? He could not tell. A strange face, very dark even for an Apache, materialized, looming over him. He heard a voice, female, he was sure, but what she said he had no idea and then he blinked and drifted off again.

* * *

Don Domingo paced in the living room of Casa Montoya, smoking a cigar and nursing a brandy. This afternoon hour usually found him reading in his study but today he had not been able to concentrate. A sixth sense, call it what you will, impelled him to pace. What is the trouble? he thought. A man used to living by his wits, he had learned to trust his feelings as he had learned to read the faces and tells of others. Many times he had won hands of poker or turned sour situations sweet by heeding his instincts, and now that they screamed at him something was wrong, he listened. But to what? Usually the visceral response concerned a danger to himself...but now, what could this be? His nephew had left some hours before...the rancho seemed secure...and yet...something was not right, Domingo knew.

"Patrón!" Pepe interrupted, bursting through the hacienda's heavy front doors. His breath came fast and hard. "Don Manolo's horse has returned!"

"What?" Domingo asked.

"Sí, Patrón! Come quickly!"

Domingo set down his glass and rushed out the hacienda door to see Ruiz and his son, Rodrigo, flanking that gelding his nephew always rode. The men calmed the horse whose eyes showed white as he breathed hard, and whose skin shone with lather.

"Señor! It is Macadoo, Manolito's horse!" Rodrigo called. "He has been ridden hard!"

"And where is his rider?"

"We do not know, Patrón," Ruiz said, his face lined and weary, his voice low, as he soothed the animal.

"Don Domingo, you must see this," Rodrigo said, looking from Domingo to the gelding's saddle as the patrón walked over. "See here, sir, by the saddle horn and then along the stirrup."

Domingo peered as directed. "That looks like dried blood. Scattered drops. A longer streak here by the saddle horn. Not much," he observed.

"Sí, Patrón," Rodrigo confirmed, scraping the substance with his fingernail and bringing his fingertip to his nose. "It is not old. It is dried but it has not been there long."

"Gentlemen, get our horses ready."

"En seguida, Patrón!" Rodrigo jogged to the stables, shouting instructions to a boy as he ran. The stable boy followed as they disappeared within.

"Ruiz, can you accompany us?" Domingo asked. The old man, stroking the gelding to calm him, nodded yes, turned and led the horse toward the stables. Domingo spun toward the hacienda only to find Pepe jogging out to meet him, carrying a jacket, gun belt, sidearm, and hat. Pepe's breath came in short gasps. Domingo waited a few seconds before issuing instructions. "Pepe, we go to find what has happened to Don Manolo. Stay here in case you hear anything. A message. A messenger. Should this happen, send a man to Casa Cueva to give word to the alcalde or his family or the priest, if we have not returned."

"Muy bien, Patrón," Pepe replied between breaths with a shake of the head. Domingo nodded, then swung toward the stables, meeting Rodrigo and Ruiz bringing three mounts. As Pepe crossed himself and whispered a prayer, the caballeros rode under the hacienda's white stucco arches and past the bronze lions at a fast lope in the direction of Casa Cueva. None spoke as they guided their horses under the broken arch of the dusty pueblo and walked them to the livery stable, from whence the stone faced man called Vaquero emerged. They dismounted and tethered their horses.

"Don Domingo, Ruiz, Rodrigo, what brings you here?" Vaquero asked.

"My nephew, Vaquero, what time did he leave Casa Cueva this morning?"

"About 11 o'clock I think, yes, I think so. What is the matter, Don Domingo?"

"Something has happened, Vaquero. His horse has returned without him. We found blood on the saddle. Whatever has happened, it likely occurred several hours ago. We do not know. We go to find out. Did you notice in which direction he rode?"

"He headed north toward the border, I believe along the trail we always take," Vaquero told them. "Señores, please wait. I am coming with you," and he rushed into the livery, spoke a few words to Roy and Teresa, and soon rejoined the men as Roy trotted out, leading a dappled gray horse.

"Señor Lauder," Don Domingo said. "Should you hear of anything, please send word to Casa Montoya."

"Yessir," Roy replied in a solemn tone, his face pale. "I hope Mano's aw right, sir."

"As do I. Gracias."

Vaquero picked up Mano's trail within twenty yards of the pueblo. A notch in Macadoo's near hind shoe made following easy. Vaquero, riding ahead, was also the first to spot the blood on the ground several miles out. "Don Domingo, come quickly!" he called. As the riders neared, he stood and resumed speaking, gesturing to the ground. "Blood, señor. Much blood, and it is quite fresh." Vaquero's chiseled brown face was solemn, his mouth a straight line, eyes unblinking.

"Ay, Manolito!" Ruiz exclaimed.

"We don't know that it is his blood, Papá," Rodrigo said, trying to prevent them all from jumping to conclusions.

"No, we do not. Can you follow the trail, Vaquero?" Don Domingo asked.

"Sí señor. It leads up into those hills. The Mexican stronghold of the Apache."


	5. Chapter 5

**La Carta Chapter Five: The Family Cannon**

"John ain't you ever gonna make a de-cision about that south pasture?" Buck Cannon demanded, barging into his brother's office at the High Chaparral ranch to find Big John Cannon at his desk.

"What's that, Buck? What did you say?" John droned as he raised uninterested eyes from a ledger to regard his brother.

"The south pasture, John. We done grazed it dry. Agin!"

"Well, let's move 'em up onto your C-Bar-M land then, Buck. There's plenty of water and grass up there."

"Shore is, John. But there's jes one problem."

"Oh, what's that?" John asked in a mild tone.

"Most the boys is over east o' here, gathering strays, branding and gen'ly keeping _your_ stock on _your_ land, John."

"Buck, you have to make some decisions on your own, you know. You can't always worry about me second-guessing you."

"Yeah, I know'd it, but ever' time I do jes that, you lay into me fer gittin' it wrong. I ain't makin' no more decisions, brother a mine. This here is yore ranch!" Buck shouted as he slammed his glove down in the middle of John's ledger as if issuing a challenge.

"What is all this shouting about?" Victoria bustled in, apron on, black hair pulled back, bristling like a startled cat. "I can hear you arguing all the way in the kitchen. Can you not try to get along with each other? You are brothers!"

"Howdy Victoria, ma'am," Buck tipped his hat. "I am powerful sorry, Victoria, but this here brother of mine is plumb ornery… 'scuse me ma'am, but I have had it up to heah tryin' to talk po-lite to him," he said, gesturing to his own neck.

"John, what is the trouble? Is it the ranch? Is it the hands? Is it Buck? What is it, my husband?"

"Victoria, it's my own business. I have a ranch to run, and I'll do as I see fit." John's voice became louder the more he spoke, and with each decibel, Victoria's dark eyes widened and her mouth quivered.

"Oh, I see!" she at last proclaimed. "And I am a mere woman and therefore not capable of understanding the business of men?!" She spat out the final word as if it were poison.

"Now, Victoria, I didn't mean it that way." John tried to placate her, but the torrent of Spanish that followed amused Buck, and only served to show John that he'd put his foot in it again. He'd be lucky if he didn't sleep in the bunkhouse tonight. "Victoria!" he called after her as she stormed back to the kitchen, muttering. He caught the words "cabeza dura" and saw her tapping her head and gesturing with her hands.

Buck chuckled, but it really warn't funny, because now he was gonna haveta decide the issue hisself. Ain't got enough men to do it lessen I take some from the east range an' move 'em to the south range to drive the cattle north. Then I leave 'em short-handed on the east range an' anyway, John's gotta issue the orders to move men...or mebbe Sam kin. Darn it, I shore wish Mano was here.


	6. Chapter 6

**La Carta Chapter Six: Apache Way**

Mano wished he were at the High Chaparral as well. He groaned as he opened his eyes. Ay yi yi, still that foul smell. My head, Dios mío, such pounding. Ahora, let us see what I have done to myself. Spread my fingers, all right, so far so good. All move correctly. Now for my arm. It, too, moves. Shoulder también. Bueno. This is good, hombre. You are not dead. Next my arm, ah. Manito, let us sit up. Ah, no! A searing pain in his right side forced him down as he tried to lever himself upright, Eh? What is this? Under my ribs? He touched his shirt and felt stiffness, yet moisture oozed from his skin. He struggled again upright, this time managing to sit. Then the pain in his head exploded. He swooned but stayed sitting. My lungs, like fire. Cannot breathe. Calma, hombre. Slow. Ay, caramba, it burns. He groaned but refused to lie back down. Ay, Dios mío! My head! He raised his left hand to finger a thick cloth that seemed to encircle his skull. Light streamed in and he saw where he was. Some sort of wickiup. He squinted at the sound of a door flap disturbed and beheld the same dark-faced woman he remembered from before.

He opened his mouth to speak, forcing the words with effort. "Hola." She said nothing. Grimacing, he placed his hands together in the Apache sign for peace. "Tasi," he rasped, feeling queasy as pain shot through him again. She made no reply but probed his bandaged head. He winced and sucked in his breath. Then she was gone. Within a minute, a second figure appeared. Mano leaned on his left arm, breathing hard and tilting his head, squinting to regard the newcomer. Recognition flashed as he spied the long gray hair, brown skin, and solemn face of one he knew. The mystic, the one Victoria had nursed at the rancho.

"Nock-Ay-Del?" Mano whispered.

"Shik is kohene a Cristu...I see you still live."

What did he say? Shik is? Cristu? Angel woman's brother? Ah, his name for Victoria, Mano remembered. The medicine man may have said more but Mano was having trouble thinking even in Spanish or English, let alone Apache. He sat up straighter with some effort.

"Where am I?" Mano asked in Apache...reinforcing his question with a hand sign.

"Our camp in the stronghold. We saw you shot and fall from your horse to the ground. All thought you dead," Nock-Ay-Del said in guttural Apache. "I said we must know. If you dead, we bury you with honor. This is the least you deserve."

"Gracias, Nock-Ay-Del," Mano felt stronger now though his head still throbbed and pain seared his side when he moved. "Did you see who shot me?" he asked, also trying to sign what he meant.

"No."

"My head and side, they burn. But I recall a force to my chest." He pointed to each area, then gave the Apache sign for a question.

"Book," Nock-Ay-Del answered in gravelly English.

"Book?"

"Book," the Apache produced a leather volume and Mano understood. Cervantes. Volume one of _Las_ _Novelas_ _Exemplares_...part of the set Papá had given him years before. Spanish. 1812. Ay, Bendita, he loved that book. His saddlebags had brimmed with clothing and food, but he had not wanted to leave Cervantes behind. Tales of Don Juan, his favorites. He remembered the book had stretched the inside pocket of his jacket, threatening to burst the seams. This had been of no concern. Victoria had needle and thread. Chihuahua, she would have to be a leathersmith to fix _this_ now, he thought as Nock-Ay-Del thrust the volume into his hands. A bullet had torn through leather and paper, tunneling a groove the size of his small finger. He recalled the book had rested near his chest. Probably saved me, he thought. That and my jacket.

"The bullet, where did it strike me? My side hurts." He gestured.

"Bullet in you. Ribs." Nock-Ay-Del pointed. And the bullet will need to come out, Mano realized, groaning. That was going to hurt like hell. Well, at least they had not already removed it with a dirty knife. He felt nauseous.

"My head?" Mano indicated the bandage.

"Hit front of saddle where...this," Nock-Ay-Del gestured, his hands shaping a saddle.

"Oh, the horn."

"Yes. Horn of saddle hard. Cut head. Much blood," Nock-Ay-Del continued in broken English.

"What happened to my horse? Caballo? Er...pon-za-nay?"

"Gone," Nock-Ay-Del said in Apache as he motioned to sign that Macadoo had run off.

Ay bueno, that means he may have gone back to Rancho Montoya or perhaps Casa Cueva. Could be Tío Domingo or Vaquero will know I have been hurt, Mano thought. Well, I can only hope.

"Food?" Nok-Ay-Del inquired.

"Sí, tengo mucha hambre y tengo sed, también," Mano replied, shaking his head yes and imitating the action of lifting a glass with his hand. Nock-Ay-Del nodded and left him again.

Mano edged back against a post in the wall of the wickiup. He plucked his shirt, crusted with blood, away from the place the bullet remained, wincing as he probed with his left hand. Ay, Ow! Caramba, that hurt, but the bullet, lodged between ribs, did not seem too deep. He could feel it. His chest felt sore. Probably bruised. That might explain why it hurt to breathe. Or maybe a few ribs are broken. He blinked, and groaned. Who could have shot him? This he wanted to know...and why.


	7. Chapter 7

**La Carta Chapter Seven: Old Friends**

"Hey, Lobo, I shot him for you. What more d'ya want?" the bearded, buckskin clad man boomed, his shaggy grizzled brows shading rheumy eyes. Glaring at the Mexicano standing beside him in the camp, he loaded another round into his single shot, single bore Sharps, a rifle favored by buffalo hunters.

"What more do I want? I want to know he is dead. I want to be sure. Carstairs, you were too far away to see clearly and now you tell me his horse has run off, so now we must leave," snarled Lobo, a corpulent man in his late forties, a magazine of cartridges draped across his chest, dark eyes flashing. "What a disappointment you are, hombre. I am most annoyed. You should have shot the horse and then the man. Or at least gone to check, eh, to make sure he was dead."

Carstairs's face reddened. Ain't no reason for Lobo to get riled up, he thought, furious. Made a good shot, far enough away so nobody'd spotted me. Hit that fella Lobo's been watching fer days. Heckuva shot, too. Least 800 yards. An' now Lobo treats me like a dog. Stupid Mexican. Oughta bust him one right now an' leave him staked out in the desert, an' I would, too...'cept them gals round him is pretty and he always has gold. Bah. Might do it anyhow. Jes not now. Too many hombres ridin' with him fer ma taste.

Lobo's face darkened. Ay, that Carstairs, what an imbecile! Lobo thought, angry with himself as well. These gringos, they do not understand revenge. Revenge must be sweet. And at some point it must be final. As with Manolito. He has run out of chances. Lobo, idiota. You should have shot that crazy fool yourself. No, Lobo, no. Instead you give this loco buffalo hunter the honor and what does he do? Shoots and does not wait to see. Runs off as he sees Manolito fall. Then he comes back to my camp! Hombre. Lobo sighed, then resumed thinking. Well, Manolito did fall, that much we know. He did not move. Ah, es cierto he is dead. Or at least he is hurt very badly. I, the wolf, will soon know... But the horse! The horse is what concerns me. The horse will return to Rancho Montoya and it will not be safe for us when he does. Lobo grunted his displeasure, then shouted to the comancheros and women sitting under trees or on rocks, milling about the camp beside a stream filled with mountain run off. It had been a good place to camp. Now it was lost to him. I must order my men to ride, the women to scatter.

"Muchachos! Mujeres! Vamonos!" Lobo shouted instructions. "Break camp. Mujeres, apuranse. Muchachos, kill the fires. Cover our tracks. We ride for the border. Ahora!"

But where to go? Lobo pondered. Many places north of the border we can hide. Maybe find some gringos to kill, if we are lucky. Where would a wolf go? He smiled. A wolf goes where he is not expected. Maybe we go to the old Tortuga mine. They would not think to look for us there...after the last time.

* * *

Two days after his showdown with John, Buck Cannon was annoyed. He yanked off his black hat and wiped his brow with a dark shirtsleeve before urging his horse down the trail of an ornery cow. I have made the de-cision, he thought, an' you kin just live with it, Brother John. Pulled men off the east range and moved 'em down to the south pasture. Yessir. Now all we gotta do is gather cattle from a couple dozen arroyos. Some of them vacas is plumb stupid and got they-selves into all kind of trouble, he thought, but the hands'll find 'em. Whoa, wait a minute, he paused, remembering where he was. That old Tortuga mine is up ahead. He chuckled. Never gonna fergit the day me, Mano, the boys, and ol' Marshal Packer cornered El Lobo and his men up there. Yessir, Mano's trick talkin' worked pretty good. An' they'd got that old boy but good. Lobo was mad, too, 'bout spittin' feathers.

What's this? Hmmm. Buck, let's just be careful now, he said to himself as he spotted hoof prints where none should have been. These look fresh and they weren't made by no cow. "Funny," Buck said aloud as he realized the tracks led to Tortuga mine. Better pull back, get some of the boys, he thought. He turned his horse as if he had changed his mind about following the cow and rode away at a fast walk, appearing casual, unalarmed.

"Sam! Sam!" Buck sped up a few hundred yards out from the tracks and rode at a lope to the clearing where he'd last seen Sam Butler, the foreman of the High Chaparral.

"Yeah Buck, what's up?" Sam's deep voice intoned.

"Sam, there's tracks up there near the old Tortuga mine and they's fresh."

"You think we got some old friends visitin' up there, Buck?"

"I don't rightly know, Sam, but it shore wouldn't surprise me none."

"What do you want us to do about it?"

"Well, Sam, I think mebbe we oughta collect the cattle we got and head 'em on back up to the Chaparral. Drive 'em as fast as we can without stampeding 'em. Then I think mebbe some of us need to come back down this way and see whut's goin' on."

"Okay, Buck," Sam nodded. "All right, boys," he called to the hands in earshot. "We're gonna take these head and drive 'em up to the ranch quick as we can. No stoppin'. Just keep 'em moving. Pedro?"

"Sí, Sam," the lanky Mexican replied.

"Ride out and give the message to Joe and the boys up ahead that we're heading in."

"Sí."


	8. Chapter 8

**La Carta Chapter Eight: The Bullet**

"Your friend," Nock-Ay-Del gestured toward Manolito, who sat propped against a mesquite tree at the edge of the clearing, head back, watching through half-lowered eyelids as the four men walked toward him. Vaquero carried a canteen in his hand and saddle bags across his shoulder.

"Hola," Mano greeted them with a half-smile, making as if to rise. Vaquero shook his head no and instead knelt beside him, assessing, as the others looked on. "I have been shot," Mano whispered. "I do not know by whom."

Vaquero motioned for Rodrigo to help him, and together they peeled off Mano's shirt. He winced from the pain but uttered no sound. Vaquero opened his canteen and poured just enough water to rinse his own hands before examining his friend.

"Hmmm," Vaquero said, brow furrowed as he probed the wound in Mano's side. "Manolito, the bullet will have to come out. I do not think we should try to move you until this is done."

"Sí," Mano grimaced. Just as he had thought. "Ow!" he groaned as Vaquero pressed on his ribcage. "Ay, Vaquero, I think perhaps some ribs are bruised, too."

"Sí. Cracked or bruised," Vaquero nodded. "That is why it hurts. Your chest is bruised, too. It must be hard for you to breathe."

"Sí. But it is worse lying down."

"I think I had better take the bullet out now, Manolito."

"All right."

Don Domingo stood beside Ruiz, observing in silence but nodding his agreement. Ruiz, his face filled with concern, also watched in silence.

Vaquero opened his saddle bag, removing a sharp knife which he proceeded to hone sharper still with a small whetstone that he always carried. He touched the edge of the blade with a fingertip and nodded his approval, then turned to Nock-Ay-Del, who stood watching, silent. The alcalde showed the Apache the knife, and motioned to the campfire. The Apache nodded. It is best to ensure he understands, thought Vaquero.

"Rodrigo?"

"Sí, Vaquero?"

"Please heat this knife in the fire and then let it cool."

"Of course." And so he did.

"Vaquero," Don Domingo said, handing him a bedroll which he had carried with him as they had climbed up from the foothills. "Perhaps we should have him lie on this."

Vaquero nodded. The men spread the blanket and Mano stretched out with a grunt and a groan, lying on his left side.

"I cannot breathe if I lie on my back. This will have to do," he said in a soft voice. Vaquero nodded.

"Valencio," Vaquero said to Ruiz. "In my saddle bags you will find bandages and whiskey. We shall need both. Please get them ready and sit beside me with them. Ah, Rodrigo, the knife? Gracias. I will take that. Please get behind Manolito and hold his shoulder and his right arm, por favor, so he does not jerk. Don Domingo? Would you please hold your nephew's legs?"

With the men at their stations, Vaquero took a deep breath. "Ruiz, the canteen?" He first poured some water over his own hands again, then over the open wound. Mano winced a little but did not move. "I am sorry, Manolito; this is going to sting," Vaquero said as he took the whiskey flask from Ruiz and poured a small amount on the area.

"Ay, chihuahua," Mano groaned but did not move, gritting his teeth.

"Now for the bullet," Vaquero said. Mano closed his eyes, inhaled, and held his breath. Vaquero cut into his side, enlarging the hole with a quick small slit, then reaching in with his forefinger and the knife to pinch the bullet, flicking it out with the tip of the knife. It skidded onto the blanket and Ruiz picked it up.

"Basta..." Mano said through clenched teeth, exhaling but not moving. His jaw was tight. He wanted to pound the ground with his fist and shout, but instead he tried just to breathe. Pretty tough, this nephew of mine, Don Domingo concluded.

"It is all right now. You may let him go," Vaquero said. Mano gasped and breathed harder, although this was almost as painful for him as what Vaquero had just done. Mano grimaced as Vaquero poured whiskey onto the wound again and, taking a wad of bandage, packed it to staunch the flow of blood. A look of concern came upon his face as the wadding reddened in seconds. He repacked the wound and it happened again. "I think the wound must be stitched. It will not stop bleeding," he said.

"Perhaps if we wrap the bandages tightly around him?" Rodrigo suggested.

"Es possible. I may have…" but before he could finish, a deep guttural voice sounded from behind.

"No. This," Nock-Ay-Del said, holding the curved spine of a barrel cactus. "This," he repeated, showing with his hands the act of piercing an imaginary item.

"Ah," Vaquero nodded, remembering, taking the fish hook shaped spine. "Look, he is right," he said, showing the men the horizontal raised ridges that would catch the skin and work as a staple to hold the wound in place. "Rodrigo, please rinse your hands and cut a half dozen or so of the spines of that cactus and bring them to me." It should take only two, Vaquero thought, but I might as well have a sufficient supply.

"A half dozen? Are you loco, Vaquero?" Mano rasped, trying to rise. The blood flowed stronger.

"Lie down, Manolito. We will not use them all," the alcalde replied as Ruiz scooted over to pat Mano's head. The caballero complied and lay still.

The men again assumed their stations and Mano grimaced and winced, holding his breath while Vaquero inserted two barrel cactus spines to stitch his wound in a crude fashion, pouring whiskey over the whole and then packing the area with fresh wadding. With Rodrigo's help, Vaquero edged Mano a little higher and wrapped bandages around his torso to hold the dressing in place, allowing him to lie again on his side on the bedroll when this was complete.

"Gracias," Mano murmured, lapsing into unconsciousness.

"He is not going anywhere for a few days, I should think," Domingo observed. "Although the sooner we get him to the rancho, the better."


	9. Chapter 9

**La Carta Chapter Nine: The Patient**

Mano blinked open his eyes. He was still outside atop a bedroll under the mesquite tree. His side burned and his head ached. But he was alive. He glanced at the dressing. A little dried blood, that was all. He squinted to see Vaquero sitting beside him, stoic, watching.

"Hey, Vaquero," Mano rasped, raising himself up on his left elbow just a little. "How long have I been out?"

"Less than two hours, Manolito."

"How did you," he stretched his neck. "How did you find me, hombre?"

"Manolito, it was easy. Nock-Ay-Del had help to bring you up here. They used a travois pulled by a pony and there were quite a few moccasin prints besides. The trail was easy to follow from where you were shot. There were signs that some brush was used in haste. The deep drawn tracks told us the travois carried someone. It could only have been you."

"Bueno, amigo. That was good work."

"Well, Manolito, you always say that the Apache never do anything for no reason and one only has to work out what that reason is."

"Sí. I said that?" Mano replied. "I did say that, amigo. And it was well said." He frowned, concentrating. "I don't remember getting shot...spinning. I remember spinning. Then a white light. Then I woke up and was here...in the wickiup. I, eh, persuaded Nock-Ay-Del and the woman to help me outside." He paused, shifted a little, then added. "Hey, Vaquero, who is this woman?"

"She is a slave, compadre, a slave. She probably escaped years ago from gringo slave owners, or was traveling with them, when she was captured. The Apache love slaves and I suppose her life has not changed much. Apache or gringo, she still has a master."

"Ay, pobrecita. She is kind. No conoce que tan bueno lo tiene."

"Es verdad. Nock-Ay-Del is alone here with just this slave woman. Manolito, he is on some kind of spiritual retreat—away from his own people it would seem. He goes off by himself into the trees. Perhaps he is meditating or praying to spirits. We have interrupted his solitude."

"De verdad? But this is the Apache stronghold is it not?"

"Sí, but only the edge of it. We are not far into the mountains, only on the edge. Many Apache are above us. And I should think the Apache will soon come down from these mountains. Now enough talk. You must rest." Vaquero rose and Mano saw him walk to the fire and return. "Here, drink some of this broth. The slave woman prepared it. It is good and will nourish you."

Mano nodded, accepting a few sips of broth which Vaquero offered from a tin cup.

"Gracias." Mano then lay down again. Every move reminded him of what had happened. His side burned and felt as if it might tear. He touched his forehead. A fresh bandage. Vaquero must have tended to that as well. Well, at least I am clean now and unlikely to die of blood poisoning or gangrene...he thought, settling again into a restless sleep.

* * *

"Vaquero!"

"En seguida, Señor Montoya." Vaquero looked once more at Manolito, then rose again. He walked across the camp to Don Domingo who sat under a shelter formed by a large serape tied between mesquite trees.

"Vaquero, how is my nephew?"

"Improving, señor. He is strong and the wound is not deep. Now that we have stopped the bleeding he will heal quickly."

"Good. I think we need to leave here soon. I know that my nephew trusts this Nock-Ay-Del, but he is still an Apache and we are too close to their main group. I want us to go as soon as we can."

"We cannot move him yet, señor. It may be a day or two before he will be strong enough to be taken in a wagon. He cannot yet travel on a horse."

"The Apache brought him here on a travois. We could use that to take him back down to the flat land, then send for a wagon from Rancho Montoya."

"We could, señor, but not today and maybe not even tomorrow. A travois is rough traveling, rougher than a wagon and perhaps even more difficult than a horse." Vaquero paused, then added, "If you want my advice, Don Domingo, I would wait at least two days and then make a decision. You might send for a wagon to meet us below these hills."

Don Domingo took a draw on his ever present cigar and inclined his head, in effect dismissing Vaquero, who returned to his patient. At that moment, old Ruiz approached, carrying his hat in his hand.

"Patrón?"

"Sí?"

"Don Domingo, I wish to go and search for signs of the ones who shot Don Manolo," Ruiz said.

"But Señor Ruiz, this could take a long time and could be very dangerous," Domingo replied, frowning.

"Yes, it could, but I would like to do this for Don Manolo and for myself. I, too, wish to know who wanted him dead."

Domingo looked at Ruiz for a few seconds, then nodded and said, "Well, Vaquero thinks that my nephew must not move from this location at present, probably not for two days. You may have that long to search. Do not go beyond this time, Ruiz. I will need you and Rodrigo for our journey back. But take your son with you and go now. Remember, two days only."

"Sí, Patrón." Ruiz nodded.

"Oh, and Ruiz?"

"Sí, Don Domingo?"

"After your search, I wish _you_ to go to Rancho Montoya and return with a wagon and a team to the flat lands below us. Bring another vaquero with you. We will need the wagon to transport my nephew. Please have Rodrigo return to us _here_ rather than accompanying you to the rancho."

"Muy bien, Patrón"

Ruiz summoned Rodrigo, who also nodded to Don Domingo. They slipped out of camp, retracing their steps to the foothills below. They fetched their horses from the shelter of the trees at the edge of the trail and rode back down to the flat lands, to the place Manolito had been shot. They would sweep the area for sign of whoever had shot him. Ruiz's jaw was set. This would not be easy, he thought. But Manolito is as my own son and his father was my friend. I will do this thing for him, no matter the cost. He looked at Rodrigo, jaw likewise set, and he believed they would find answers. But what answers they would find, he could not guess


	10. Chapter 10

**La Carta Chapter Ten: To Tortuga Mine**

As Ruiz and Rodrigo had expected, the trail was cold. They circled the area on horseback, making each arc a little wider than the last. More than half a mile out Rodrigo spied tracks in loose dirt beside a large outcropping of granite. Smaller formations were wedged among massive boulders, quartz in the rocks glinting in the sun. A good hiding place, Rodrigo concluded. His eyes swept the horizon. And a clear shot to where Mano had been. Rodrigo dismounted, tied his horse to a creosote bush, and climbed up into the rocks.

"Papá!" he called, moments later. "Ven aquí, por favor."

"What is it, Rodrigo?"

Ruiz tethered his horse beside his son's and picked his way among the rocks. A small clearing opened behind the granite formations, with trees and brush behind.

"Mira, Papá," Rodrigo pointed to the ground in the clearing. "Tracks. In different directions. There were several horses, but one remained. His horse scuffed his toe while waiting, so he must have been here a long time."

Ruiz regarded the dent in the earth made by a horse's hoof. "Shod. Not Apache then."

"No, Papá, but then I don't think either of us believed it would be Apache."

"No, indeed. Let us backtrack and see from where they came. Vamonos."

The two men descended and mounted their horses, covering the ground at a brisk trot so as not to waste time as they followed the tracks. They continued this way until it was too dark to see, when they made camp, both conscious that one day had already been used up.

The next morning, at first light, they continued their journey and by mid-morning they found the remains of a camp beside a stream filled with mountain run-off. As they walked through the abandoned camp, they talked.

"They were here for some time, Papá," Rodrigo said, gesturing to piles of ashes. "There were several fires and here are the remains of cooking."

"Yes, my son, they have camped here before, and I think I know who they are. Comancheros. This is a favorite haunt of those mala gente."

"Ah sí, I remember. We once encountered Miguel here, I believe, Papá."

"Sí. El Lobo, too, has camped here in former times. This is certainly a group of comancheros, but who is in charge is still not clear." Ruiz looked around him.

"Where do you think they have gone, Papá?"

"The tracks head over the border. Could be any place. A village. Possibly even the old Tortuga mine," Ruiz speculated.

"Tortuga mine? Isn't that where Manolito once led that band of gringos to capture El Lobo?"

"Exactamente! It is this which makes me think El Lobo may be involved this time."

"But he did not shoot Manolito?"

"No, I do not think so. It is not his style to shoot from a distance. He usually likes to face his enemies and watch their eyes when he kills them," Ruiz replied.

"Sí, es verdad!"

"Well, we have learned much," Ruiz said, his voice pensive, then decisive. "We must ride back now. You to Don Domingo and I to the rancho to fetch a wagon. I will bring it to the base of the trail where we left our horses yesterday. I will signal with the call of the cactus quail. You must listen for this. I will return as quickly as I can, but it will be at least a day, maybe more."

"Sí Papá, I will be ready and I will have Manolito ready, also. I will tell Don Domingo of what we have found and of your signal, and we will be ready."

"Bueno, my son."

The return journey proved much quicker, since they could ride most of the way at a steady lope. They parted at the spot where Manolito had been shot, and Ruiz continued to Rancho Montoya alone.

* * *

"I'm telling you, Brother John, they's banditos hiding up there at the old Tortuga mine," Buck Cannon insisted as the two men stood in John's study after he and the boys had driven the cattle back up to the Chaparral.

"Buck, you're letting your imagination run away with you."

"I didn't im-ag-ine them tracks, John. Large as life they was."

"Well, I don't know, Buck, seems like a fool's errand to run down there just on the off-chance someone's hiding out."

"It ain't no off-chance John. I jes wish you trusted me enough to know I wouldn't make this stuff up!" His face was flushed and his breathing harsh with the effort of getting through to his brother. They didn't make 'em no tougher, ornerier, or more stubborn than you, Brother John, Buck thought.

"All right, Buck. All right," John sighed. "Take it easy. I believe you. Now, let's decide what's best to do about this."

"Well, aw right then John, let's!"

"I think you should send for that marshal again," chipped in Victoria, who had been standing unobserved in the doorway. Her hands were on her hips, her chin high.

"I don't know that we can send for him agin, Victoria. We don't know fer shore they's anybody up there, yet."

"Buck, you just got done persuading me that there is. Are you saying you're wrong?" John's voice got louder with each word.

"Madre mía!" Victoria exclaimed, gesturing at them both. "Are you two going to fight again? And over who is right and who is wrong? All the time you waste doing this, could mean life or death to someone if there are banditos in that mine, could it not?"

"Victoria's gotta point, John."

"She certainly does" and John smiled at his exasperated wife. He watched her eyes flash, then, as she drew a breath and looked away, calmer, he noticed her eyelids flutter. She looked at him sideways with the beginnings of a smile. Both husband and wife were amused.

"You know, John, might even be El Lobo down there," Buck added, resting his foot on a chair seat and leaning in.

"Lobo?"

"Yep. Last time me an' Mano saw him, we was helping the good sisters git to Tombstone. He wasn't too happy with us then. Last I saw he and his men was bein' chased by the Apach."

"What did he come after you for?"

"Well, I wasn't too sure 'xactly what had gone on before, but I think Mano may a helped hisself to some o' Lobo's money. Lobo prob'ly stole it, of course. An' Lobo had robbed Sister Ellie."

"Hmmm. Never did get the whole story outta Mano, I guess."

"Not the whole, Brother John," Buck grinned, although he reckoned Mano'd told him most of it. Victoria rolled her eyes and shook her head.

"Well," John said. "Let's send Reno to Tucson. He can wire Marshal Packer and wait for the reply. If Packer's willing to come down on a 'fishing' trip, well and good. Meantime, I guess we'd better saddle up and see what we can do by ourselves, _without_ breaking the law."

Buck grinned and winked at Victoria, who lifted her chin and smiled back at him for good measure, a twinkle in her eyes.

The men saddled up and headed for Tortuga mine as Reno lit out for Tucson. Sam, Joe, Pedro, Ira, Arrigo and a couple of others followed John and Buck out through the gate. Other hands stayed behind to guard the ranch house and Victoria. John figured the Apaches wouldn't try anything now, while most were still up in their stronghold. Spring was supposed to be late. It would not be too long till they started coming down, but he foresaw no immediate trouble. He left the boy Wind behind, just in case. If anyone knew Apaches, it was Wind...and of course, Mano. And Wind would do anything for Victoria, he knew.

Camp that night in a dry wash was a cold one. They didn't want to waste time with lighting and putting out fires. John posted a single guard for half the night; the man was relieved by another hours later. Sam made sure everyone was saddled and ready to go before dawn, so they could make tracks in the chill of the early morning. By early afternoon, they arrived at the little creek that marked the trail into the Tortuga mine. There they made camp and began to make plans.


	11. Chapter 11

**La Carta Chapter Eleven: Leaving the Stronghold**

"Manolito, you must not try to walk!" Vaquero was insistent, but his patient was not listening.

"I am fine, Vaquero, do not worry." Mano smiled but the tightness of his mouth and the dullness of his eyes gave away his pain.

"My nephew, you should listen to Vaquero, He has been caring for you now for more than two days."

"Tío, I'm fine."

"Well, you know best, my nephew." Don Domingo smiled his enigmatic smile, but Mano fancied he could hear a measure of concern in his uncle's voice. Just then Mano's foot caught on a rough piece of ground and he stumbled. Vaquero was there to steady him and did not miss the sharp intake of breath. He looked at his friend and steered him back to the tree.

"Gracias." Mano, humbled, whispered. Vaquero just nodded, before lowering him to the ground.

"Now you must not move again, Manolito," Vaquero said. "The wagon will be here soon and you need all your strength to assist us in getting you down from this ridge."

"All right," Mano whispered, chastened. His pain was such he could not speak any louder. Ay yi yi, even after all this time, it still hurt.

"You are too impatient, my nephew. You must learn to take time. Do not be in such a hurry. What can you accomplish like this?"

Mano just nodded at his uncle's words. However true they were, he was in no mood to listen. Must get on the trail of whoever did this, he thought. This desire burned in him almost as much as his side burned. Nothing would quench it. I must see my attacker.

Nock-Ay-Del. isolated for days, now appeared. He gave a sign to indicate he desired a peaceful talk, touching his hand to his chest and then straightening the arm out in front of him. He squatted at Mano's side.

"Are you healed, shik is kohene a Cristu?" Mano had no trouble understanding his Apache this time.

"Yes, I fare well, Nock-Ay-Del, and I thank you for your help and concern. You have saved my life."

"I am glad. You will leave here soon."

All his questions seemed like statements, but Mano knew the Apache never needed to formulate questions. The hearer understood if one were implied. Nock-Ay-Del meant it would be better for them all if they were to leave as soon as possible. It is not good for him that we are here, Mano thought. It does not sit well with his friends if one of their number is too helpful to Mexicans. The Apache hated Mexicans, especially in Sonora. Their co-existence with the Montoyas, even though his family forbid the taking of Apache scalps for bounty on their land, was always tenuous at best.

"Yes, Nock-Ay-Del. Soon a wagon (and he made the sign for something with wheels) will come and I will leave."

"Good." With that, Nock-Ay-Del rose and left. He was strange, that one, thought Mano, but he saved my life. Victoria will want to hear all about it, he mused.

At that moment, Rodrigo came into the clearing from the trees. "I have heard my father's signal," he said, face shining, relieved.

"Let's go, gentlemen," Don Domingo said.

After helping the patient to rise, Vaquero pulled Mano's left arm over his shoulder and, hitching his left hand in Mano's belt, helped him to walk many yards. Rodrigo took over for many yards more. When the terrain steepened a bit, Vaquero motioned for Rodrigo to stop. Together they created a chair lift with their arms entwined at the shoulder and their hands clasped underneath Mano's hips. They walked sideways, carrying him, to the edge of the ridge. Don Domingo gathered their few possessions and followed behind his nephew. The procession, if such it could be called, was slow, but Vaquero was taking no chances with his patient. At last, after what seemed like hours to Mano, but was probably no more than 15 minutes, they reached the steepest part of the trail: a 15 foot embankment. Mano's eyes widened. How had Nock-Ay-Del hauled him up this? Best not to know, he decided. He figured Vaquero, Ruiz, Rodrigo, and his uncle had climbed up, using handholds. But he was in no shape to climb down.

Ruiz was below with two others. They had constructed a primitive rope pulley fastened to the thick branches of a tree whose trunk, twisted and gnarled, stretched out over the embankment some degrees. Rodrigo and Vaquero first scrambled down the steep slope with the assistance of the rope, tossing the end back up so that Domingo could help his nephew loop the rope around a thigh. Thus secure, and with his uncle's help, Mano swung out a few feet over the embankment and was lowered into the waiting arms of Vaquero and Rodrigo below. He groaned and tried not to twirl round as he descended, to avoid smashing into the embankment. His knuckles white, he tried not to look down. In the best of conditions, he did not much care for heights. Once in the arms of his companions, he was carried 20 yards down the trail and hoisted into the back of a wagon, where he lay on several thick bedrolls, closed his eyes, and sighed against the pain. He touched the dressing on his side—a little seepage of blood, nothing more. Ruiz had earlier ordered the men from Rancho Montoya to saddle the horses for Vaquero, Rodrigo, and the patrón, Don Domingo, who let himself down the embankment with the help of the rope. Ruiz climbed into the back of the wagon to sit beside Manolito while the two vaqueros drove the team and kept a lookout for any trouble.

"Rodrigo?" Don Domingo spoke as wagons and horses pulled out.

"Sí, Patrón?"

"I think you should ride ahead and have the doctor at Rancho Montoya before we arrive."

"Sí, Patrón. I go now."


	12. Chapter 12

**La Carta Chapter Twelve: Dr. Ramirez**

Vaquero took his leave of the party as they reached the cut off to Casa Cueva. Rodrigo, true to his word, fetched Dr. Ramirez, bringing the physician to the rancho hours before the arrival of his patient. By the time the wagon and horsemen approached, Ramirez had already instructed Pepe to have the servants prepare Don Manolo's room with fresh linens and ensure a sufficient supply of bandages ready, even if this meant tearing clean strips of new linen. The doctor had also taken advantage of the Montoya kitchens to boil his surgical instruments, just in case. This process he supervised himself; thanks to long experience he knew it was best not to trust the sterilizing of instruments to the untrained.

"Mmmm," Dr. Ramirez said as he unwrapped the bandages and probed Mano's wound. "Cactus spines? I have heard of this. Whoever did this, it was well done." The doctor paused, then reached for a pair of scissors to snip off the narrow sharp ends that protruded. He picked up tweezers, using these to grasp the larger ends of the spines and yank them out.

Mano gasped, wishing that there had been only one spine requiring removal. The first surprised him; as for the second, he knew what to expect and he tensed, but the doctor's movements were swift and sure.

"Don Manolo," Ramirez said. "We must keep this wound clean and allow it to drain. The bleeding is minimal. You must lie on your back if you can. We can prop you up on pillows to make it easier for you to breathe, but I want this wound left open tonight and towels placed around it in case the bleeding begins again. Forgive me, but I must also pour alcohol over the wound, and I am afraid this is going to hurt."

Mano nodded and winced as the doctor proved himself true to his word. I hope whoever did this suffers a similar fate, he thought. "Ahh," he gasped as Ramirez moved from burning him with alcohol to pressing on his ribcage.

"Just as I thought. At least badly bruised. You will mend," the doctor said. "Con su permiso, I will stay here tonight and check the wound tomorrow. If it appears to have drained and there is no infection, all will be well. We will content ourselves with bandages. Only if necessary will I use stitches. Now let me look at your head."

After the doctor's latest ministrations, Mano, a fresh bandage wrapped round his head, closed his eyes and slept. Pepe awoke him that evening to offer water and soup, which he took. Then he drifted off until the next morning, missing the conversation among his uncle, Ruiz, and Rodrigo that ensued in Don Domingo's study.

* * *

"Gentlemen, I wish to discuss what Rodrigo mentioned prior to our leaving the Apaches," Domingo said from behind his desk to the two men standing in front. "Please tell me in more detail what you discovered when you returned to the place my nephew was shot." The Don leaned back in his chair, one arm propped upon an armrest, his eyes flat.

"Don Domingo, we found where the shot came from, behind some rocks. Many horses and men gathered, but one waited behind. We believe he took the shot," Rodrigo replied.

"Do you know where these men went?"

"Sí, Patrón. At least we know the direction. They headed north, toward the border. We followed as long as we could," Rodrigo answered.

"And do you have any idea who they were?"

"No, Patrón," Ruiz spoke. "We discovered nothing definite. But the bullet, it is the kind used in a weapon favored by those Norteamericanos who hunt buffalo for the railroads and government."

"Sí, Don Domingo. A Sharps carbine," Rodrigo explained.

"A buffalo hunter? Why would a buffalo hunter wish to shoot my nephew?"

"A mystery, Don Domingo," Ruiz replied. "However, I believe we may find the answers north of the border."

"Where?" Domingo edged forward in his chair.

"Many places the banditos hide. We know the buffalo hunter was not alone. I believe we would do well to track him as far as the Rancho Cannon. But the answer may well be south of there...in Seco Canyon, Apache flats, or even Tortuga mine."

"You have a hunch, Ruiz?"

"Sí, Patrón. I have a hunch but it is no more than that at present."

"And this is?"

"Patrón, Don Manolo has managed to, ah, antagonize certain groups of comancheros over the years. The ones who killed la Señorita de la Vega y Granada, Miguel Morales, Molinaro, even El Lobo, whom I believe your brother knew in his youth."

"Yes, I have heard of him," Domingo paused. "Very well, gentlemen. We have had a long several days. I suggest we eat and rest...and check on our business at the rancho. We may well ride out again soon."

"Muy bien, Patrón," Rodrigo and Ruiz replied. Both men knew it would be difficult to ride from the ranch without Manolito, who would insist on coming with them if he knew. They wondered when he would be ready to ride.


	13. Chapter 13

**La Carta Chapter Thirteen: Señor Morales**

"Chihuahua, Javier, I am hot, dry and tired," Miguel Morales complained to his second in command. "The posse from Tucson...I believe we have lost them for now. We must stop for a little while until, cómo se dice, the dust settles, eh?" Morales, a fortyish bandito with a large sombrero shading his eyes and a cartridge magazine slung over his chest, slitted his eyes at Javier.

"Jefe, there is old Tortuga mine just a little way further down this trail," Javier smiled. "It is a good place to hide. Rocks, trees, scrub. No one goes there anymore."

"Oh, porqué no?"

"Since El Lobo was captured by the gringos there, everyone thinks it is full of bad luck and they won't go into it."

"We make our own luck, Javier, don't we?"

"Sí, Jefe!"

Miguel and Javier turned their horses toward the direction the latter had indicated. Moments down the trail, a man arose from behind a large rock. A lookout of some sort, Miguel supposed, grunting. "Eh, Javi, what is this?"

"Halto! Quiénes son ustedes?" the man exclaimed.

"Rafael, is that you?" Morales called. "And you do not recognize me?"

"Ah Miguel, now I see who you are!" Rafael scrambled down. "Come with me. El Lobo will be pleased to see you."

Miguel glanced at Javier and raised an eyebrow. Without speaking, they urged their horses at a walk behind Rafael, afoot, as he led them past the rock formations: granite sentinels guarding the entrance to the camp located in a box canyon lined with trees and brush.

"Jefe, see who has come to visit you," Rafael announced.

"Quién? Ah, Miguel! Cómo estás, amigo?" cried Lobo, easing himself off the rock against which he leaned to walk over and clap Miguel, now dismounted, on the back, putting his arm around his shoulders and pulling him into the camp. "Rafael, take care of Javier and the horses. Make sure they are well taken care of, eh?" Lobo looked at Rafael out of the corner of his eye and nodded toward a distant fire as he guided Miguel to another campfire closer.

They sat down. Wine was poured and shared. "Lobo," Miguel observed. "Always you have silver to drink from. Hombre, how do you do it?"

"How else would a wolf drink, amigo?"

Miguel laughed. He could think of many other ways a wolf could drink, but he needed the help of this man. "Lobo, I have some gringos chasing me, hombre, bad men, intent on doing me harm, I think," he lowered his voice.

"This is hardly news, Miguelito. We both popular here in the North, no?" Lobo's stomach shook as he laughed at his own joke.

"Sí es verdad. But this time I think I will need to stay hidden for some time. Perhaps you are hiding here for the same reason?"

"Ah no, Miguel, no! Lobo has no need to hide, hombre."

"Oh, of course not!"

"Why do you not stay with me?" Lobo offered. "The camp is large." He leaned toward Miguel and added, "Eh, we could be useful to each other, perhaps?"

"Perhaps. I have about ten men with me, trailing after. They took a more, shall we say, roundabout route as we left Tucson in haste," Miguel smiled. "How many men do you have here, Lobo?"

"Hombre, how do I know?" Lobo laughed, avoiding the question.

"Well, it does not matter. Together we could face an army, no?"

"Seguro!" and Lobo clapped Miguel hard on the back once again, ignoring the involuntary grimace that followed. Miguel was careful not to shrug his shoulder until Lobo turned away.

"Who's this here hombre, Lobo, another polecat from Mexico?" a loud Americano voice boomed. Miguel looked up, curious, and Lobo's eyes flashed as Carstairs ambled up, wheezing and hacking as he laughed. He wiped his rheumy eyes with a filthy rag pulled from filthy buckskin trousers. Miguel frowned and his upper lip curled in disgust. Lobo glared.

"Miguel, allow me to present Señor Carstairs," Lobo growled at last. "Señor Carstairs is a former buffalo hunter who has joined me."

"Done more than join you. I done you a big favor, Mister Lobo," Carstairs spat. "And don't you fergit it!"

With that, the hulking buffalo hunter stormed off to join the vaqueros at another fire. After a few more drinks with Lobo, Miguel likewise rose and moved away, trying to look nonchalant, as if he were just stretching his legs and wandering about. He spotted Javier and, with a nod of his head, he signaled for Javier to join him. Both found the fire where Carstairs now sat, sipping from a bottle.

"Ah Señor Carstairs, what a pleasure it was to meet you. I am so happy to hear you have assisted my old friend, El Lobo," Miguel opened. "He is a hard man to please. What favor did you perform for him? I am guessing he did not reward you for this as you expected."

"I'll tell you, Mister, what I done. Shot this fella at the range of a half mile. Yessir, not many men coulda made that shot, but I done it. Hombre fell dead to the dirt. T'weren't my fault his dad-blamed horse run off, were it?"

"Ay chihuahua. What a misfortune! What hombre was this, amigo?"

"Oh some fella that Lobo didn't like much. Man..Mano...Mont…."

"Manolito Montoya?!" Miguel's eyes flashed fire.

"That's the one."

"Oh, yes. I have had business with Manolito Montoya before. An accomplishment, I am sure, señor, to shoot him." Miguel glanced at Javier and jerked his chin in the direction of some rocks. They rose and strolled over to them, as if discussing the weather. Carstairs, nursing his bottle, paid them no mind.

"Javier, what this man has said is interesting. If he has truly killed Manolito, I, for one, would be willing to pay him, but I want to be sure Manolito is dead. I want you to ride out tonight. I shall inform Lobo that you are going to see what has happened to Mano. He will be only too glad to have his suspicions confirmed, but you will need to be very careful. The Montoya rancho is large and well-guarded, as you know. Do not take any unnecessary risks. Ask some local peons in a cantina if they had heard of any injury to Manolito, your old friend, and then look shocked when they tell you of his death."

"Entiendo." Javier nodded.

"Good. Vate ahora!"

Javier moved to his horse and Miguel walked back to El Lobo to apprise him of what had been set in motion.


	14. Chapter 14

**La Carta Chapter Fourteen: The Agreement Tested**

"It ain't much farther, Big John, but maybe we should leave the horses here and carry on afoot, or else they could hear us 'fore we get there," Buck suggested as they paused on the trail to Tortuga mine.

"Good idea, Buck," John Cannon replied. Buck's eyebrows rose at the unaccustomed praise. He pushed back his hat brim and scratched his forehead.

"Sam, pass the word, quietly, to dismount," John turned to his foreman. "Leave a man here to look after the horses. We'll go the rest of the way on foot."

"Yessir, Mr Cannon. Joe?" Sam rasped the boss's instructions to his brother. "Pass it on." The whispered command spread among the men until they had all dismounted, tethering their horses to nearby scrub or trees. Carrying rifles, they edged toward the border of property denoting Tortuga mine with painstaking slowness, careful to step on sand and stay under the cover of scrub as much as possible. They fanned out to search a wider area.

"Mister Cannon?" Joe, in the lead, called in a soft voice, pointing at a spot in the distance as Cannon looked up, brow furrowed in concentration.

"Yeah, Joe?" Big John replied in a quiet voice.

"Man in the brush just up ahead a ways. May be a lookout."

"Señor Cannon?" another voice rasped on the boss's right.

"Yes, Arrigo, what is it?"

"Horses, many, many horses. A makeshift corral over this way." Arrigo nodded in the direction opposite Joe's lookout.

"Boys, let's pull back to where we left the horses. We need to think about this." Everyone nodded at Big John's whispered orders and they retraced their steps in silence.

Once back at the horses, seated on boulders, rocks, old logs in a small clearing, they looked at Cannon, expectant. "Buck," Big John started, "you take Sam and Arrigo and scout that whole area. I want to know how many men, how many horses, and exactly where their camp is."

"Sure thing, John." Buck nodded as he, Sam, and Arrigo set off at a soft shuffling jog.

"Joe, you and Ira get our horses into some sort of shelter. Keep 'em contained and outta sight."

"Yessir, Mr. Cannon." Joe and Ira started in the opposite direction.

"The rest of you men, scout around for spots where you can sit tight awhile. Maybe up there among the rocks. We need a view of this trail, but we don't want to be seen. And we need to know if company's coming," Cannon ordered. "Pedro? A minute. I need you for something else."

"Sí señor," Pedro Carr replied, scratching his head and looking the boss in the eye.

"Pedro, I need you to get down to Rancho Montoya as fast as you can. Bring back Mano and as many men as Domingo can spare. We're gonna need a small army to root out this bunch of renegades. If there's any problem, let Mano handle it. He may have to remind his uncle of our agreement."

"En seguida, señor." Pedro jogged over to his horse before Ira could lead it away. He rode out at a lope, sticking to the sandiest part of the trail to minimize noise.

* * *

"But Dr. Ramirez, I assure you. I am feeling much better."

"You may be feeling better, Don Manolo, but you will soon be incapacitated again if you do not listen to me and do as I say," the doctor sighed, his gray brows knitting together in annoyance. His patient was a stubborn, hard-headed, insubordinate, irritating...words failed him. Days he had been here arguing with this man. He had other patients to see.

"Entonces, I will return to my room to rest," Mano sighed. He walked with measured steps from the entrance hall of the hacienda back up the stairs, toward his room. He didn't enter his chamber, but instead listened for the hacienda's front door to open and close. Waiting a few minutes longer, time enough for the doctor to get into his buggy and drive out the gate, he trotted back downstairs. He tiptoed across the hallway, made for the front door, and walked out into the courtyard to enjoy some fresh air. I have been cooped up like a cockerel at breeding season. I need space, air, sun, life! He inhaled flowers and horses and leather, edging his way around the garden. On his second tour of the courtyard, running feet caught his attention and he looked up to see a familiar face jogging toward him from the direction of the stables.

"Pedro!" Mano exclaimed with a grin, extending his hand rather than offering an embrace as he usually might. Pedro's mouth hung open, and it took a few seconds for him to speak.

"Ah Mano, I'm glad to find you. Hey, what's happened to you? You look skinnier than me!"

"What are you doing here, amigo?" Mano asked, ignoring the question.

"I've come to get you and as many men as your uncle can spare. Señor Cannon is up at Tortuga mine waiting for help. There are many comancheros camped up there. Hey, one of them might be your old friend Lobo."

"Lobo?" Mano cried.

"Sí. Buck thinks it may be him."

Don Domingo, his reading interrupted by the courtyard voices drifting in an open window, strolled out to investigate at this moment, cigar in hand as usual. "What is the trouble here, my nephew? And what are you doing out of bed?"

"Tío, Pedro tells me that Big John and Buck are at Tortuga mine, and they think Lobo may be camped there."

"Ah, then it is as Ruiz guessed." Domingo had slipped up and he knew it; it was most uncharacteristic of him to play his hand so early. He frowned at his nephew and inhaled his cigar.

"Ruiz knew this? You did not think I would like to know?" Mano's eyes flashed and he winced at the pain caused by his sudden harsh breathing.

"Manolo, you are in no condition to do anything about this thing. Dr. Ramirez has ordered…"

"Hang this doctor and all doctors. This is something I needed to know."

"Nephew."

"Tío, John Cannon has asked for our assistance in this. I am going to Tortuga mine. You cannot stop me," Mano replied in a strong voice. In response to his uncle's frown, he continued. "I need to do this. It is my decision, not yours. Please, Tío, do not try to stop me." The last few words were softer and more conciliatory, but Domingo knew his nephew was stubborn and would go, whether he allowed it or not. Perhaps it would be better if he went with them, where he could be regarded with care. He turned to call his servant.

"Pepe!"

"Sí, Patrón."

"Summon Ruiz and Rodrigo at once."

And Pepe shuffled off as fast as his old legs would carry him, while Don Domingo made Manolito sit down on the wrought iron bench as they waited on the stable master and his son.

Pedro repeated his report and much talk ensued about who should or should not go. Mano listened to it all without speaking. He only knew he was going. He just hoped he could get on the horse. At last decisions were made, horses saddled, provisions packed—including extra bandages which Ruiz made sure to include, shaking his head. Then Manolito rode out with Pedro, his uncle, Rodrigo, Ruiz, and a dozen Montoya vaqueros, all well-armed and carrying extra ammunition in the form of crossed belts. Mano, his side hurting from the jostling of the horse, knew pretty soon that his going might have been a mistake as Macadoo loped along. But he did not care.


	15. Chapter 15

**La Carta Chapter Fifteen: Strategy**

After a night's camp just north of the border, they neared their destination. Mano, restless and in no small amount of pain, had not slept well in camp, although he had managed to drift off a little after Ruiz cleaned and re-bandaged his wound.

Although the contingent from Rancho Montoya approached the Tortuga mine with care, their horses at a slow walk, Joe spotted them some distance out from his vantage point behind a large boulder and tree. He dropped to the trail in front of them, his rifle across his chest, his finger close to the trigger.

"Pedro, Mano, Don Domingo" he acknowledged them in a quiet voice. "Best if you dismount here and we'll put your horses with ours. Pedro, Arrigo is that way. If you take 'em over there that'd be best."

"Sure, Joe." Pedro whispered some Spanish to a Montoya man and two vaqueros helped him lead all their horses to the makeshift corral as the others walked on into the camp nestled in a small, secluded clearing surrounded by brush and boulders.

"Señor Cannon," Don Domingo nodded, greeting John with a thin smile, extending his hand with measured politeness and no warmth.

"Don Domingo, thank you for coming." John's response was likewise reserved although he did submit to a brief handshake.

"Mano! Hey, Mano!" Buck rasped, louder than he intended. John glared at him but he ignored it as he jogged over to his amigo, stopping as he saw Mano smile but take a step back and hold up a hand as if to slow him.

"Buck! It's good to see you too, compadre." Mano's voice was warm, but he kept it low. He put his left hand on his friend's shoulder and guided him off to one side to talk.

"Whut's happened to you, Mano? You look pale and awful thin."

"Let me tell you all about it, amigo. It is a rather interesting story."

They found a good-sized rock. Buck sat down but Mano, tired of riding, leaned. Buck listened as the story unfolded, sometimes asking a question, but more often just letting Mano talk.

"Well, hombre, I'm glad you still with us. Guess all that book learning did do you some good," Buck chuckled, remembering what Mano had told him about the bullet's deflection. "It's a miracle yore here."

"Sí. But what you are doing down here, amigo?!"

"I was rousting out some strays and come across some prints that didn't belong to no cow. That's when I figgered Big John oughta know and here we all is."

"That, too, is a miracle, Buck!"

Buck just grinned and Mano smiled. Ay, it is good to have you beside me again, amigo, Mano thought. We will need that pistola of yours, hombre, and very soon, he was certain. They moved to join Don Domingo and John Cannon. "Uh oh, Buck. Looks like my uncle and your brother are, cómo se dice, locking horns. We better get over there."

"Yeah, we better before things get outta hand."

"Well Domingo," they heard John say as they neared the two. "I think we should split up and come at them from two angles. If some of our men circle up behind the ridge and cover us from up there, we could go in from the front and force them out where they'd run into our guns."

"Sí, Señor Cannon, we could do this," Domingo replied, his voice smooth as he puffed on his cigar. "We could also send our men to be butchered at the local slaughterhouse." His tone remained calm and matter of fact, but his meaning got John hot under the collar.

"Domingo…" John began. Mano cleared his throat and both ranchers looked at him.

"Ah, Juano, I do not think we need to fight among ourselves at this point," Mano began. "Perhaps we could put the men into three groups. One could do as you suggested and go up on top of that ridge. The other two could move forward toward the comancheros, but in a pincer movement—two flanks—so that they would run into our crossfire."

"Excellent my nephew, excellent." Domingo's tone was a bit less controlled and Mano thought he could detect pride there.

"Mano, I don't know about that," John replied. "We could just as well catch ourselves in our own crossfire and wound or even kill each other instead of these bandits." John was right about the riskiness of the situation, but Mano was sure that if there were comancheros to aim at, none of the cowboys would be shooting wildly across the space separating the groups.

"Might work, Mano. Pincer movement shore worked for Gen'ral Lee at Chancellorsville. But we'd best make sure our men all know that they better be aiming at comancheros, not each other," Buck opined.

"Yes. I think they will be careful," Mano said, pausing a moment before adding. "And John, I will scout the back trail to make sure El Lobo does not escape."

"Mano, you cain't do that," Buck rasped, insistent. "There you go doin' it agin."

"Doing what again?"

"You always gotta do stuff like that by yoreself. Time ta let someone else handle it, hombre."

"Buck…"

"Don't you Buck me. You's injured. You ain't goin'."

"Buck, I must go. I must be sure that we get Lobo. I have reasons."

"An' you the only one that can do that?"

"Mano, what's this about you being injured?" John asked, noticing his brother-in-law's condition at last.

"He been shot, John," Buck grunted, then turned to Mano. "Well ifn' you's goin' on the back trail, _so am I_!" Buck's last three words were spaced out with emphasis and brooked no contradiction. Mano nodded and walked away, with Buck trailing behind him. John and Domingo looked at each other, then started issuing orders in English and Spanish to their men.


	16. Chapter 16

**La Carta Chapter Sixteen: Engagement**

The plan proceeded as outlined by Mano with one exception: no one anticipated the return of Javier from his errand for Miguel.

Mano and Buck, on foot, took the long way around, making for a narrow back trail leading out of the Tortuga mine, an exit not visible inside the canyon unless one knew where to look. Mano was well acquainted with the back trail. He had frequented Tortuga mine as a youth and had long become used to scouting back exits. His cautiousness had kept him alive on more than one occasion. Buck followed him. Seemed Mano was goin' a might slow but climbing wasn't easy carryin' rifles, even if you weren't shot, Buck supposed.

Meanwhile, Montoya vaqueros and Cannon ranch hands formed double flanks, the two sides of the pincer movement that Mano had described, while a half dozen other hands and vaqueros began the painstaking ascent to the top of the ridge. With an assault from above, they would force the banditos to rush out into the crossfire below. The men followed orders with military precision. All was well except for the two generals in camp, who glared at each other as angry toros, but did not speak. Joe had taken the lead on one side with Sam on the other. Ira had gone up on the ridge. John knew he could rely on his hands to keep cool heads under fire and was thankful Domingo had realized it, too, and not insisted his men take the lead.

Eh? What is this? thought Javier, dismounting and walking his horse into cover as he neared the camp at Tortuga mine. More news to relay, he concluded. He was safe. No one had been watching the trails from Sonora after the Montoya vaqueros had passed him, and Javier had picked his way with care the last several miles. He spotted the men scrambling up the ridge, saw how many there were and guessed their intent. Tethering his horse to a tree, he sneaked into the canyon camp to warn Miguel, whom he found sitting next to El Lobo, both consuming dishes of beef and beans.

"Jefe, jefe!"

"What is it, Javier?" Miguel asked, looking up from his meal.

"Jefe, there are a lot of gringos coming into the canyon and some are going up onto that ridge." Javier indicated the high ground to the left.

"Ay that is not good," Lobo growled. "Rafael," he shouted to his lieutenant, sitting nearby, "tell the men to get mounted. We need to make a run for it in many directions." Rafael looked at him in silence, then nodded and rose. El Lobo was right, but how can we do this thing? There is only one way out of this box canyon and the gringos will be waiting. Que lastima! I will never see Juanita again, Rafael thought as he hurried to issue Lobo's orders.

"Javier, who are these men?" El Lobo demanded.

"Some are vaqueros from Rancho Montoya, El Lobo. I saw my cousin among them. The others may be gringos, cowboys from the High Chaparral perhaps. I did not take the time to ask them."

Both Miguel and Lobo raised their eyebrows at this news. Javier continued to speak.

"I learned in Sonora, Jefe, that Manolito was only injured. He has survived. On my way back to our camp, I saw Don Domingo de Montoya, Manolito, and others from Rancho Montoya ride past me. I hid just in time. They did not see me. Then I proceeded with caution and came here. This is when I saw the men climbing up the ridge."

"So Carstairs did _not_ kill him!" Lobo snarled, looking around for the buffalo hunter. "I can neither see nor smell him, bah." No matter, Lobo thought. The wolf will find the stupid bison. Carstairs will pay for his arrogance.

* * *

Lobo and Rafael made for their horses, tethered close to the back of the canyon. Miguel and Javier followed, Javier had already collected Miguel's mount and taken one for himself from among the extras, since he had left his own horse tied outside the camp.

Gunfire erupted from above. Lobo's and Miguel's men scattered on horseback. Lobo and Rafael pulled up as they heard shots blasting from the canyon entrance. All was confusion and smoke. Lobo's eyes scanned the area at the rear of the canyon, near to where their horses had been.

"There it is, Rafael. Ven conmigo. Andale!" Lobo grunted. Miguel and Javier saw and followed as well. Rafael urged his mount behind that of his jefe as they headed for a narrow trail that appeared to lead straight up the side of the box canyon. When they started along the trail, however, they saw it actually opened upon a very narrow gorge covered in brush, barely visible. The trail was tight, so they dismounted and led their horses...slow going amid the heavy brush and overgrowth. The noise of the men rushing down the canyon into gunfire covered any sounds they might make as they pushed through the brush. Or so they thought.

"Ah, were you thinking of leaving?" a familiar voice sounded from behind a stand of dense bushes ahead in the narrow trail. Lobo, eyes squinting, peered ahead. He saw movement in the brush ahead...the man stepped out, remaining half in the bushes and half out. Lobo detected the glint of a silver pistola.

"Manolito! Amigo! Is that you?" Lobo cried.

"Sí, Lobo, soy yo!"

"Cómo estás?"

"No thanks to you, I am well, my friend!" Mano replied, his voice cool, sarcastic.

"Javier, now!" Miguel shouted from behind Lobo, leaping to fire his pistol in the direction of the voice as Javier also drew his gun to fire. Miguel could see no one. Lobo blocked his view. Two pistol shots rang out at the same time as two others. Javier spun round and fell face up, a bullet in his forehead. Miguel clutched his thigh and sank to the ground.

"Don't shoot, hombre. Don't shoot. I have no desire to die like a dog!" Lobo shouted, tossing his own gun out in front of him.

Buck slid down the side of the ravine where he had been hidden by some mesquite and a rock. He collected the guns and kept Miguel covered. "C'mon Mano, they's not leaving our little party anymore."

Manolito walked out from between the bushes in front of Lobo, his pistol drawn. He was breathing hard, sweat beading on his brow, his expression cold.

"Manolito, you do not look well, hombre!" Lobo exclaimed in mock concern.

"Just try something, Lobo," Mano replied. "I hope you do. And I will shoot you where you stand." Lobo shrugged his shoulders as he put his hands in the air. Rafael, who had remained silent, followed suit. At least he would live to see Juanita...if he ever got out of jail.

* * *

The pincer movement had proved effective at the canyon entrance. Sufficient cover on either side of the canyon trail provided cowboys and vaqueros alike with enough protection to avoid serious injury from stray shots. A few had nicks and cuts from flying cactus or mesquite, but no one had been badly hurt. The comancheros could not say the same. More than half their number were dead. Those who remained alive surrendered, their faces stoic and sullen, many with blood dripping from open wounds. They limped into the center of the canyon, corralled like so many horses.

The two generals also strode into the middle of the canyon, side by side, Longstreet and Lee at Fredericksburg, conquering heroes who now smiled at each other and at their victory. Their triumphant mood dimmed for just a moment, however, as they heard Pedro yell.

"Riders coming!" the thin Mexican hollered. The generals, brows furrowed, turned to look back at the box canyon's entrance. Then all relaxed as they saw Reno ride into view followed by a familiar figure on horseback.

"Marshal Packer!" John exclaimed as the two neared and dismounted. A tall man with a badge and a moustache walked over and offered his hand, which Cannon shook.

"Good to see you, Mr. Cannon," Virgil Packer greeted him. "Reno tells me you may have need of my services."

"Ah, well, we did...and, yeah, I guess we do, Marshal," John started, then remembered his fellow commander, standing in silence, smoking a cigar. "Oh, I'm sorry, Domingo. Let me introduce Marshal Virgil Packer from Prescott to you. He's been interested in getting his hands on these comancheros for some time now."

"Ah, I see." Domingo's expression was, as usual, inscrutable and he blew his trademark smoke ring like an Indian signal of welcome.

"Marshal, this is Domingo de Montoya, Mano's uncle and the late Don Sebastian's brother."

"Mr. Montoya, pleased to meet you," Packer extended a hand which Don Domingo shook, almost as an afterthought.

"Speaking of my nephew, Señor Cannon," Domingo began.

"Well, he was here a little while ago…" John trailed off looking around for any sign of his brother-in-law or brother.

Crack! A loud rifle burst rang out, followed by a crash from the far end of the canyon. All turned to see what had happened. A dusty, dirty, leather-clad figure had smashed through the brush and landed in the dirt. His hands flung back, he looked like a shaggy bison fallen on the ground. He did not move and from his appearance, it seemed he would never move again.

"Blasted varmint!" A familiar voice cursed.

"Buck, is that you?"

"Yeah, John, it's me!" Buck strode into the clearing, holding his pistol and stepping over the dead body of the buffalo hunter that had been Carstairs. He followed three men, two with their hands in the air and the third limping and clutching his thigh.

"Hola, amigos!" Mano said as he walked out behind the group, reloading his rifle which still had smoke issuing from it. "That gentleman was trying to shoot us from the cover of that brush, but he should not have carried such an obvious weapon. The sun glinted off the barrel of his carbine and I knew who and what he was." Mano's expression was grim and weary.

Buck shuffled the prisoners toward Packer, John, and Don Domingo, as Mano brought up the rear, pausing to kick at Miguel, who clutched his thigh.

"That perro needs some cactus spines for a small cut on his leg. Perhaps someone would like to slice him with a nice rusty knife? Eh, Miguel?" Mano's voice carried a cruel edge and none of his accustomed humor.

"Ah, Señor Lobo, we meet again," Packer said, his smile like that of a rattlesnake, thought Lobo. Ay, Bendita, I have been bitten good. This means Yuma. He scowled at Manolito who looked back at him with flat, emotionless eyes. This time he could not blame Manolito, however. He would have done the same thing, had their roles been reversed.


	17. Chapter 17

**La Carta Chapter Seventeen: Loose Ends**

It was the work of less than an hour for Don Domingo and John to apportion the hands to finish the business at Tortuga mine. Some would accompany Marshal Packer to escort the prisoners who could make the journey to Yuma. John offered to send Chaparral men with Packer while Domingo ordered his vaqueros to bury the dead comancheros, for even evil men deserve a grave. Miguel sported quite a large hole in his thigh, but the bullet from Buck's gun had gone through and through, and the barrel cactus spines inserted by Ruiz proved effective in holding the leg together until he could be treated by the prison doctor. Ruiz even poured whiskey on the wound and wrapped it with bandages before rendering similar first aid to the wounded comancheros, with the help of two Montoya men and Pedro. Packer, the comancheros, and four Chaparral men mounted up, pausing before John Cannon who reached up to shake Packer's hand.

"Marshal, thank you." John turned to his men. "Boys, you drop 'em off in Yuma and stay overnight. Get some rest. Have a few drinks." He grinned and handed several banknotes to cover expenses to Sam, who reached down to take them, returning the grin.

"Whoo-wee, thank you, Mr. Cannon!" Reno exclaimed.

"Just overnight, Reno. Lotta work waitin' at the ranch."

"Yessir."

"Got, it, boss," Sam added, as Packer signaled for the group to head out. Sam, Joe, Arrigo, and Reno nodded as they rode off with the marshal and his prisoners.

"Don Domingo," John turned to his wife's uncle. "The Chaparral is not far, just over half a day's ride if we head straight there, take the direct route. You're so close. Why don't you and Señor Ruiz and some of your men come on up and spend a few days? Victoria would love to see you."

"Sí, Tío." Mano spoke up. "Please come. You can rest and…"

"And, Manolito, have you forgotten?" Ruiz interrupted.

"Forgotten?"

"Sí. What month this is."

"No."

"Count back, Manolito. From the time you and Señor Cannon…"

"Ahh, Ruiz, es verdad, hombre!" and for the first time all day, Mano broke into a magnificent smile. Buck saw, heard, and knew also, and grinned.

"Tha's right. We might jes have us some foals when we get back!"

"Tío, you must come," Mano insisted.

"All right, nephew. Thank you, Señor Cannon. Ruiz and I shall accompany you to the rancho for a brief visit." Domingo issued orders to Rodrigo to return to Rancho Montoya when the vaqueros completed the burials. "After all, Rodrigo, we still have a rancho to run and I need you there to do it."

"Muy bien, Patrón," Rodrigo replied, returning handshakes from both Cannon brothers, then giving Mano a light embrace and his father, a longer one.

John Cannon looked at Domingo and nodded, a tight smile on his face. Well, he had asked, hadn't he? But those Montoyas had a way of...well, no matter, this was Victoria's uncle and she would be thrilled.


	18. Chapter 18

**La Carta Chapter Eighteen: Home Again**

Victoria was thrilled to see her uncle, her husband, her brother, her brother-in-law, Ruiz, and the Chaparral men...but she was also flustered. She ran to greet them—a swish of pink dress and apron—as they rode into the ranch yard long after sundown and dismounted. Hands rushed to take their horses to the corral. Her words spilled out and her breathing came in short, excited spurts.

"Oh John! I am so glad to see you!" she cried, running into his arms.

"It's only been a few days, Victoria!" John replied as she shut his mouth with a kiss.

"My beautiful niece," Don Domingo said.

"Tío Domingo!" she grasped his hands and exchanged affectionate kisses before turning to her brother and brother-in-law."

"Buck!" she hugged him and looked at Mano, who even in the dim lantern light seemed wan and thin.

"Manolito! Are you all right?" She walked up to him and stared, touching his shoulder and inching up to give him a kiss. How like his sister to notice, he thought. He smiled.

"Sí, hermanita. Estoy bien." He leaned down to kiss her on the cheek.

"Señor Ruiz!" Victoria smiled, delighted to see the old family friend who also received a hug. "I am so glad to see you all, but I must go back to the stables!"

"Stables?" John asked.

"Yes, John. Wind needs me. The mares, they have started to foal."

* * *

"Ah!" Ruiz cried. Mano's eyes shone. Buck let out a whoop. John grinned. Domingo took a puff of his cigar. And all proceeded toward the stables where Wind, the half-breed Pawnee boy, sat on the ground beside the delicate gray mare, Mano's favorite. Always cool and collected, the epitome of calm, Wind turned troubled eyes upon all as they entered.

"This mare is having trouble," he said in an even tone, but his brown eyes flashed concern. He was worried, and Wind never worried. Never seen you break a sweat before, boy, Buck thought.

The stables had been emptied of all horses save the six mares. Part of their agreement, John had said. Truth was, he knew Mano and Buck had sunk about everything they had into this horseflesh and he wanted them to succeed. It meant a great deal to him that they were doing something with their lives. Something constructive, that is. He didn't mind being inconvenienced, just as he hadn't minded it when Mano brought that stallion Toronado up to cover those mares. His kinfolk had an excellent opportunity here. Eventually, they'd build their own stables just as they had built the extra corrals here at the ranch. For now, he was glad to help. Besides, it made Victoria so happy, and that alone was worth it.

Mano strode to Wind's side, but, still stiff and sore, found himself unable to bend enough to be of any help. I may not have the strength anyway, he thought. Buck noticed and moved to squat next to the mare, edging aside Wind, who shifted closer to the neck and head. Frowning, Buck leaned in on his knees. "Here boy, let me he'p you," he said. He pulled off his gloves, rolled back his sleeves, and thrust his arm up to his shoulder inside the horse. "Mano, it's a breech. Rope, we need rope." Ruiz stood behind him, nodding his agreement.

"En seguida!" Mano jogged to the far wall of the stable, fetched a length of rope hanging there, returning as fast as he could—running was impossible—to hand the rope to Buck.

"Oh Mano, what is happening? Is she going to be all right?"

"Sí hermanita mía, the mare will be fine. Everything will be fine. Buck can handle this." Mano trusted his partner to get a loop of rope over the foal's front legs and pull with firm, steady pressure, bit by bit, until the foal was turned inside the mother and could be helped out with an extra pull on the rope. Once Wind realized what to do, he grasped the rope, too, helping to take up the slack and keep the pressure smooth and steady.

"Ah, Manolo, look! She's having her baby!" Victoria marveled, her eyes glistening with tears of happiness.

"Hey, Victoria, it's a girl! Now you need to think of a name," Buck announced, laughing.

John and Domingo stood in the background, watching the proceedings with some amusement, but cattle were John's main concern and he suggested they go inside to sit and enjoy a brandy, while the work continued in the barn for the men whose horses these were. Domingo smiled his assent and followed Big John into the house. No one in the barn noticed them go.

Buck grinned and wiped down the foal with straw. The mother was a little weak but soon on her feet, ensuring that her baby was licked clean and nuzzled into position for her first suckle. Mano watched with a satisfied smile.

* * *

Wind, who had moved down the barn, called in a soft voice, "Buck, come here!" Ruiz had already made his way to the stall. Buck and Mano followed. "This mare's in some trouble, too," Wind said. "I think she's been in labor too long. She started having contractions before that other mare we just helped."

"Mano, I think the foal has not dropped sufficiently," Ruiz said as he laid a hand on the mare's side and probed with gentle hands. He spoke to the unborn foal. "Hey, niño, you like it in there, eh? All warm. You do not want to leave your home? But you must, caballito," Ruiz spoke in a lilting voice, then issued commands to all. "Mano, aquí, by her head. Muchacho y Señor Cannon, that end, por favor."

There were straw bales in the stall to help in case the mare got cast, so Mano eased himself onto one near her head while Buck and Wind took up positions at the business end of the mare, ready for any action required. Victoria stood behind her brother, biting her lip.

"Manolito, Doña Victoria, please calm the mare. Stroke her head. Talk to her." Ruiz instructed. They complied.

"Calma, calma," Mano, already by the mare's head, said in a singsong voice, stroking her neck under the mane, tender, gentle. "La gallina," he sang in a soft baritone. She calmed.

"Pobrecita," Victoria sank beside her brother and also stroked the horse, who neighed as a spasm hit. Another contraction. Her eyes flashed white and so did Victoria's. "Ay, Manolito, you have done this to her," she said in a half angry tone. "This is all his fault, caballita. Men!"

Mano laughed. "Do not listen to her, mi hita. A lo que vinemos."

Victoria laughed, too, and smiled at her brother. But they both kept their voices low and their hands gentle.

Ruiz pressed the mare's barrel and began pushing. Another contraction hit: sudden and quite long. Buck, eyes wide, rasped with laughter in his voice, "I can see a nose, Mano, and it's got a little bitty white strip on it, just like its daddy!" He clasped Wind about the shoulders and shook him. Wind looked sideways at him but allowed the contact without drawing back. Strange creatures, these white men, he thought.

The foal came now, but the mare was very weak. Ruiz had to remove the placental sack from the baby and dry the foal off with straw, rubbing its chest to encourage its breathing. "Es un niño!" he exclaimed with pride.

Mano's teeth gleamed in the dim light of the barn as he smiled. Victoria's eyes grew misty, tears of happiness, Mano was almost sure. A fine start. Toronado had done his part, but now they must take care of these mares and foals if they were to continue breeding. He looked at the mare again, and what he saw gave cause for alarm.

"Ruiz, look at the mare, her eyes!" Mano, still beside the mare's head, exclaimed.

"Ay Manolito!" Ruiz quickly approached the mare's head and lifted her eyelids. "She needs something to bring her round."

"Here, Señor Ruiz." Wind handed over a small flask of brandy, by the smell of it, Ruiz thought. Well, it would stir her into life at least.

"Manolito, please open her mouth and I will encourage her to drink some." As instructed, Mano opened the mare's jaws a little. Ruiz poured some of the brandy into her mouth and together they tilted her chin up. She swallowed and coughed. Ruiz gave her some more and her eyes opened wider.

"Bueno. She will mend. Give her time," the stable master said.

Mano exhaled and sank back in relief that he would not lose one of his mares.

* * *

Buck, Wind, and Ruiz went from stall to stall ensuring nothing untoward was happening. It was usually best to let the mares get on with their job, but sometimes, you had to be ready to help them. Buck shook his head. Glad I remembered that old trick of pulling out a calf that was the wrong way round. An' glad it works on horses! he thought, pleased.

The men and Victoria gathered a few moments at the end of the barn. Ruiz joined them, eyes twinkling, placing a gentle hand on Wind's shoulder. "Muchacho, you were a big help. If you ever need a job in Sonora…"

Wind nodded and returned the compliment with a faint smile, about the most emotion he ever displayed. "I didn't have a chance to tell you, Buck and Mano," Wind said. "Two fillies were born yesterday. No problems."

"Eh, bueno!" Mano said with a grin. "And gracias, amigo, for all you have done."

"Then we got two to go!" Buck chortled. "You think any more tonight, Señor Ruiz?"

"No se, Señor Cannon. Whenever a lady is ready...one never knows."

"Well, this lady is heading inside now," Victoria laughed and spun on her heels. "And you men should accompany me. It must be two in the morning!"


	19. Chapter 19

**La Carta Chapter Nineteen: All in the Family**

Breakfast was late at the Cannon ranch, long after sunup. Only Domingo had slept well, having retired earlier than the rest, satisfied that the drama of the horses would be resolved. Buck, Mano, and Victoria had left only when the mothers and foals seemed calm and in no danger. Ruiz had insisted on remaining in the stables all night with the mares, foals, and Wind. John, a ranch to run in the morning, had retired early but remained restless till Victoria joined him. Buck and Mano managed to catch a few hours shut-eye, Mano on his sister's gold velvet couch since Tío Domingo had taken his room. Victoria had insisted on changing his dressings before either of them went to sleep.

"Ay, Manolito! What did you do?" she exclaimed, cleaning the wound, which seemed to be healing, with water and alcohol, then applying salve and clean bandages.

"Hermanita mía, it was done to me. It was not my idea," Mano replied, wincing. "But you will be happy to know that I would probably be dead were it not for your old friend."

" _My_ old friend?"

"Sí. Nock-Ay-Del, who still calls you the Angel woman. He came to my rescue. I will tell you all about it in the morning." He looked at her with half closed eyes.

"Nock-Ay-Del?" she smiled. "Well, I am glad that he did. Now go to sleep, Manolito."

He smiled at her use of her best motherly tone, gave her a kiss as his thanks, and stretched out on the couch. She scurried off to the kitchen with the water and bandages, then tiptoed to bed since she saw that, within those few minutes, her brother had already fallen asleep.

* * *

"I am afraid this is not much of a breakfast," Victoria said as Violeta and she carried in platters of bacon, sausage, potatoes, eggs, tortillas, and salsa.

"What you talkin' about, Victoria? This here's enough for an army," Buck said, spearing three links of sausage and grabbing for the eggs.

"Gracias," Don Domingo said, helping himself to a single slice of bacon before passing the platter. Victoria poured coffee for all and Violeta arrived with a plate full of biscuits.

All fell to eating, except Buck, who, Mano thought, fell to shoveling his food down his throat, but ah, how good it was to be around this table again.

Talk commenced about all that had happened. Victoria pumped them with questions that would have never occurred to any of them to ask. This day, work on the rancho could wait. Her men were all safe. And she demanded every detail, and then some. At last she was satisfied and fell silent.

* * *

Breakfast and Señora Cannon's inquisition finished, Violeta cleared the table while the men and Victoria repaired to the living room. Ruiz knocked on the front door and entered to pay his respects and to give an update. All was well with all the mares and their foals. They now had four fillies and two colts he announced with pride. Violeta saw him and prepared a plate of food, which he sat down in a chair to eat. He could see the family gathered in the living room from his spot. They did not know it, but Don Domingo had requested his presence and had been waiting for him to come in from the stables. Ruiz looked up from his food as the Don cleared his throat.

"My friends, my nephew and beautiful niece, thank you for allowing me to visit," Domingo opened.

"You're family, Domingo. You are welcome any time," John Cannon said in a loud, clear voice, wondering as he did if he were being too magnanimous. A glance at Victoria's smile told him he was not. Mano and Buck settled in chairs, but Domingo remained standing. Ruiz watched from afar.

"Señores Cannon, I know this has been previously said," Domingo continued. "But without your help last year, there would be no Rancho Montoya for my family to enjoy. You helped me to appreciate the legacy of my brother. And you made sure there was something left to appreciate. The Montoya family is indebted to you." Victoria's smile was polite. Mano listened, unsmiling and pensive. How odd that Domingo is using the words "family," and "us," he thought. Ah, Tío, you are most unexpectedly, family, he mused, you old gambler who never tips your hand. He blinked and sat up a little straighter as his uncle turned to face him.

"Nephew, I have watched you these many months. Your help at Rancho Montoya has been inestimable. My brother would be pleased," Domingo said. "No, my brother would be proud." Mano blinked and opened his eyes wider, a puzzled look on his face.

"I hope so, Tío," he said. The rest stayed silent: Buck, working his mouth, glancing into the fireplace; John, watching Mano; Victoria, lips parted, looking at her uncle, her countenance thoughtful, attentive.

Don Domingo puffed on his cigar. He then reached into his vest pocket and withdrew a parchment.

"I had intended to show you this, nephew, before you left Sonora. I hesitated. I thought perhaps another time. Then, when you were wounded, I knew other matters would have to be settled first. However, anticipating an opportunity and hoping that the occasion might present itself for your sister also to be present, I believe this is the time to give you this." He handed the folded paper to Manolito, who took it in silence, still curious. "It is a letter that your father wrote to me shortly before his death. It was not found until a few weeks ago. I think you should read it." With that, Don Domingo sat down on the gold velvet couch and smoked his cigar.

Mano felt John and Victoria's gaze upon him. He knew Buck eyed him sideways. He looked at the parchment a few seconds, fingered the broken seal of the Lion of Sonora, then unfolded it and began to read. As he read, his brow at first furrowed and then his face softened with a slight lift of an eyebrow and a sideways tilt of his head.

"Whut is it, Mano? Whut do it say?" Buck asked, impatient.

"Manolito? What is it?" Victoria demanded.

Mano rolled his tongue along the inside of his mouth and read the letter once more before folding it and looking up. He exhaled with a sigh and raised an eyebrow at Tío Domingo, who watched with his customary inscrutable grin.

"It seems your father anticipated more of you than you thought, nephew," Don Domingo said, blowing a stream of cigar smoke.

"So it would seem, Tío. Who would have thought such a thing possible?" Ay, Papá, he said to himself. Had we only had more time. "One thing puzzles me, though. I do wonder how Papá found out about our rancho and the horses. Ruiz and Vaquero both swore never to tell." He turned to regard Buck, "Any ideas, compadre?"

Buck grinned. "Ideas 'bout what, amigo?" Then rising to give Mano's shoulder a light shove, he added, "But I will tellya this. I am one heckuva smart man. An' don't you fergit it."

Mano sighed, smiled a wry smile, and shook his head.

"I suppose you will wish to return to Rancho Montoya to assume possession of your property, nephew?"

"Sí. Tío, if it is mine to possess," Mano looked at his uncle who nodded his assent.

"It is."

"All right. Gracias, Tío. All right." His eyes twinkled and he smiled.

"What is it, Manolito?" Victoria now almost shouted as John, startled, put his arm on her shoulder.

Mano laughed. "Here, you and Juano read it for yourselves, hermanita mía," he said as he rose and handed the folded letter to her. Buck watched, puzzled, his eyes forming a question as Mano chuckled, incredulous still, shaking his head.

"I mean, why not, hombre?" Mano said more to himself than to the others. Smiling and turning to his gran amigo Buck, Mano clasped a hand on the older man's shoulder, nudging him toward the door. "Vamonos, compadre. Let us go check _our_ herd, while I explain what my uncle means."

Domingo watched, smiling, a ring of cigar smoke encircling his head.


	20. Chapter 20

**La Carta Chapter Twenty: Epilogue**

The letter addressed to Don Domingo de Montoya from his brother, Don Sebastian de Montoya, became the property of Don Manolo de Montoya, who would keep it in the middle drawer of his father's carved Spanish oak desk the remainder of his days. The yellowed parchment, its seal broken yet still discernable, would be discovered by Don Manolo's oldest son and daughter as they, with heavy hearts, sifted through their father's possessions following his death. The two would read the letter together, glancing from the massive oil portrait of their grandfather to the large silver framed photograph of their parents as they did. Both now parents themselves and approaching mid-life, they would look at each other in wonder at the question now impossible to answer. Just what had occurred between Papá and Abuelo Sebastian, whom they had never met?

"I thought Papá always wanted this rancho. Like you, he was born to rule," said the daughter.

"I thought he did, too. A most obedient son to his father. Or so Papá always told me," said the son. "But perhaps this explains..."

"Explains?"

"Sí, explains...why, whenever Papá said this...he laughed!"

* * *

The contents of the letter were as follows, first en Español. The English translation follows the Spanish text.

 **La Carta**

Domingo querido hermano mío,

Si lees esta carta pues según todas las probabilidades es que yo estoy reunido con nuestro padre y nuestros abuelos en la glória, y mis abogados te han informado que te he legado el Rancho Montoya. Quizás has decidido guardarlo. Espero que hayas hecho así, sinceramente.

Sospecho que estas circunstancias te vinieron como una sorpresa. Siempre quería que mi hijo sea mi heredero. Pero Manolo expresó ningún deseo de lograrme vez tras vez, y en efecto expresó cada deseo de evitar todas las responsabilidades. Ningún padre podría haber amado a un hijo más y ningún padre podría haber deseado menos a hacer un hijo miserable. Entonces me giro a tí, el único otro heredero masculino sobreviviente de la família Montoya. Por ahora, espero que hayas visto las ventajas de lo que se han reglado en tus manos.

Los días recientes, hermano mío, me han informado sobre circunstancias que me han dado motivos para creer que un día Manolito puede estar dispuesto a asumir su propio posición esperada en el Rancho Montoya. Mi hijo único se ha hecho propietario de un ranchito en Arizona y parece estar interesado en el sostenimiento de una cría de caballos por allí. Si esto es todavia verdadero, pues te preguntaría como siguiente. No eres conforme a ninguna obligación juridica para hacer lo que te pido, porque el Rancho Montoya juntos con sus recursos pertenecen al mando tuyo. Sin embargo espero que consideres y cumplirás con los deseos de su hermano difunto.

Preguntaría que des a mi hijo el semental Diablo y su hijo Toronado. Quizás, estos animales podrán ayudar a Manolito en sus nuevos esfuerzos. Los padres deben hacer lo que pueden para conseguir que sus hijos sean establecidos en este mundo.

Domingo, mi hermano, también te pregunto cuando llegará el tiempo para que deseas entregar este Rancho Montoya en una manera que te parece bien, que tendría la bondad de aconsejarte con mi hijo primero. Puede ser que en este momento Manolo estará más dispuesto a aceptar las responsibilidades que eran, de hecho, sus derechos de nacimiento más bien que los tuyos.

Te deseo salud y prosperidad, hermano mío.

Don Sebastian Emmanuel Velasquez de Montoya

* * *

 **The Letter**

My dear brother Domingo,

If you are reading this, it is in all likelihood because I have joined our father and grandfathers in the hereafter, and my lawyers have informed you that I have bequeathed the Rancho Montoya to you. Perhaps you have decided to keep it. I sincerely hope you have done so.

I suspect these circumstances have come as a surprise to you. I had always intended for my son to be my heir. But Manolo has repeatedly expressed no desire to succeed me and every desire to avoid all responsibility. No father ever loved a son more nor wished less to make a son miserable. Hence, I have turned to you, the only other surviving Montoya male heir. I hope, by now, that you have seen the advantages of what has been given you.

In recent days, my brother, I have been apprised of circumstances which give me reason to believe that Manolito may one day be willing to assume his proper station at the Rancho Montoya. My son has become the owner of a small rancho in Arizona and appears to be interested in sustaining a horse breeding operation there. If this is still true, I would ask the following of you. You are under no legal obligation to do as I request, for the Rancho Montoya and its assets are yours to command. However, I hope that you will consider and comply with the wishes of your deceased brother.

I would ask that you give to my son the stallion Diablo and his son, Toronado. These animals perhaps will be of assistance to Manolito in his new endeavors. Fathers must do what they can to see that their sons are established in this world.

I also ask, Domingo, my brother, when the time comes for you to dispose of the Rancho Montoya as you see fit, that you would first be so kind as to consult my son. Perhaps Manolo will be more willing to accept the responsibilities that were, in fact, his birthright rather than yours.

I wish you health and prosperity, my brother.

Don Sebastian Emmanuel Velasquez de Montoya


End file.
